


The Shadow of a Shout

by saltandlimes



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Bloodplay, Dubious Consent, Incest, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-03-31
Updated: 2013-04-08
Packaged: 2017-12-07 02:44:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 10
Words: 30,501
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/743275
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saltandlimes/pseuds/saltandlimes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Otherwise known as the Whisper 'verse. Things never work out perfectly for the Winchesters. You already knew that. Set during season 8. Title is taken from Jarod Kintz <i>This is the Best Book I've Ever Written and it Still Sucks</i> “A whisper is like the shadow of a shout."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Sometimes it isn't a choice at all (Episode 8.10)

The door slammed a little as Sam stepped out of the cabin Dean had found for them to hole up in and try to figure out what had just happened. There was something about being in a room with Dean, about feeling him that close, that wouldn't let Sam make a decision rationally. Sam snorted a little. Who was he kidding? It wasn't just something. It was the feeling he'd been shoving down for years, the hope he'd tried to push away so far that it simply didn't exist. 

That seemed to work better for Dean and for his father than it had ever worked for Sam. 

Sam was fairly sure that if he went back to Texas, opened that motel room, Amelia would be waiting. She had looked so hopeful when she had left, so sure that they would be together. Sam could feel it, the pull of everything he had ever wanted, the pull of what he had had for those few months with Amelia. She was beautiful, smart, funny, everything he had ever wanted in a woman. Sam was sure that the rational thing would be to try for something with her. Dean could handle the thing with Cas. Dean had Benny, could even call for help if he needed it.

And that hurt. He had always been there for Dean. Who the fuck was Benny anyway? Some vampire who had helped Dean out for his own ends. Why was Dean so hung up on him anyway. And why was Dean protecting a vampire who had obviously killed again. Sam had thought they were over this when Dean had killed Amy. Even Sam had been able to see eventually that Dean was just doing what was, in the end, right. It wasn't like Benny was any different. If a vamp could live without killing, Sam was all for letting it live. But Benny had killed Martin. And sure, Martin had been a bit off of his rocker, and sure, if Dean had just explained what had happened or was happening, Sam would have been willing to trust Benny. But Dean hadn't even tried. He had just sent Sam on a wild goose chase off to Amelia and started this entire thing again.

Sam wanted to scream. He had been ok. Living off of hope and desire again, but ok. Now he didn't know what to do. There was Amelia, warmth and light and a happily ever after. No Lucifer, no Leviathans, no Yellow Eyes. Just a family and a job and maybe a kid. And then there was Dean, and pain, and some sort of screwed up angel, and the flickering need he had felt since he had been old enough to realize what it was. There was a life that should be lived on the one hand and on the other was something so twisted up, so broken he felt guilty even comparing it to Amelia.

And yet he couldn't even imagine life without Dean. Sam shook himself a little. It wasn't like choosing Amelia meant he could never see Dean again. That was clear. Dean hadn't even given him any sort of ultimatum. He could pick Amelia, no hard feelings. Dean would come around, probably. That was what Sam should choose. There really shouldn't be any debate. And yet...

Sam looked around him. He had been steadily trudging down the narrow road leading past the cabin. Now he shook himself a little. Maybe seeing Dean, thinking about it without having to talk about it would help. He turned around and started back a little quicker up the road. 

As Sam drew nearer to the cabin, he slowed a little. He didn't really want Dean asking him what he had decided. Maybe he could just glance through the window and see Dean. Maybe that would help. He peered carefully in the window. 

Sam started a little in surprise. Dean was pacing back and forth in the living room area of the cabin, phone clutched tight to his ear and apology painted on his face. Sam edged closer, pressing his face to the crack in the window, forcing himself closer until he could hear Dean's voice through the glass.

He was talking to Benny, Sam realized with a start. Talking to Benny and telling him that they were through. Doing just what Sam had demanded. The pain was clear on Dean's face, too much pain for a simple “sorry man.” It wasn't like the few times that Sam and Dean had had to say sorry to a hunter contact. It was more like... Sam felt a chill run up his spine. It was more like a break up speech, the emotions flickering across Dean's face far more like the time he had left Cassie than anything else. Sam couldn't remember the end of Dean and Lisa's relationship clearly, yet he was sure the pain in Dean's face then was being echoed down.

Sam felt a little sick. Now he knew why Dean had been angry about Amelia. The idea that Dean had been fucking someone, been involved with someone when he didn't even know if Sam was alive or dead, didn't know what had happened, made him queasy. Dean wasn't supposed to put other people before Sam, wasn't supposed to be able to think about anything except for Sam when they weren't together. Sam knew that had been how it was with him when Dean was in hell, even for some of the time at Stanford. It had been that way before Amelia, even some of the time with Amelia. He'd look around a corner and expect Dean to be sitting in front of the TV. He'd roll over in the night and be shocked that there wasn't another bed, feel totally alone without Dean breathing in the dark. 

And then he knew.

It didn't matter that things were twisted, that he only had a hope for what he... for what he really wanted. It didn't matter that by any standard of normal he should choose Amelia. It didn't matter that he and Dean were about as screwed up as could be imagined. It didn't even matter that this felt like the last chance. If he decided now, there was no going back. There would be no more normal, no more happily after. There would be hook ups after bad bars, jacking off in the shower while his brother was in the next room, never spending a night or day alone. This was the end of the road he had been walking since he had left for Stanford. 

This was the moment he had been building up for.

Sam walked to the door and pulled it open. Somewhere in his musings, Dean had finished up the conversation and flicked on the ancient TV. Dean looked up as he came into the room, but said nothing. Sam was grateful. He wasn't sure he'd be able to keep it in if Dean had, wasn't sure he could stop himself from explaining everything. That conversation was one he hoped he never had to have. Instead, he walked over to the cooler and pulled out two beers. Handing one to Dean, he sank down onto the couch. This was it. Dean gave a bit of a half smile. He knew, then. Knew that Sam had chosen him, just as he had chosen Sam.


	2. LARPing involves changing in the same tent (Episode 8.11)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam wears LARPing gear and takes a shower to work things out.

“It'll help us.” Sam could feel his lips twitch up into a little bit more of a smile at the look on Dean's face as they headed off in the direction of Charlie's tent. There was a them, they were back together for real. No attachments, no one pulling them apart. Giving Amelia up had hurt like hell, but in the back of his mind there had been something that had whispered that she was only a wedge between him and the person he loved best. Sam had always been good at denying that wedge. He'd ignored it with Jess – he could say that now, could think about it. He'd almost managed to ignore it with Amelia. But in the end, he knew he'd always choose Dean. 

Sam gave a little grimace as he watched Dean duck into the tent. The one time he had managed to ignore it completely, he'd almost ended the world. Even strung out on demon blood, even at the darkest moments in the honeymoon suite of that hotel, the whisper had been there. He had simply not cared that time. 

Perhaps it wasn't really the best thing to ignore after all.

Sam realized he had been standing just outside the tent entrance for just long enough that Dean had come back to stare at him. He hurried up to it and ducked inside, almost slamming his head into the thin bar above the door way. Charlie was standing in the middle of the tent, looking a bit like Christmas had just come early. 

“So I take it Dean told you we'd like to play” Charlie nodded. 

“You guys are going to be so good at this! I just have to find some clothes to fit you, Sam. Its not like we actually have a whole lot of giants playing.” Charlie winked a little and then started rummaging through two large trunks at the edge of the tent. “These are things we usually only use for decoration. Some guy who used to live in Moondore left them here and they were too big for anyone still playing.”  
She held up a tunic and smirked. “Guess they were just waiting for you to come along, Sam.” Sam was having a little trouble believing he had agreed – suggested even – to do this. But Dean had looked so into it when they were playing before, had seemed so dejected earlier, that Sam hadn't been able to stop himself. Charlie's voice interrupted his musing once again. “Go on, put them on.”

Sam shucked his FBI coat and started on the buttons of his shirt. His hands stilled a little, though, when Dean made an odd sort of sound. It was somewhere between a huff of breath and a sigh, and Sam wasn't quite sure what to make of it. Turning away from the side of the tent he had faced to change, he caught the slide of a strange expression across Dean's face. It, like the sound before, was a little more difficult to parse out than Dean's expressions usually were. His brother's eyes were clamped firmly on his face now, but Sam could have sworn that as he turned, Dean had been staring at his chest. He glanced down himself, suddenly self conscious. Did he have something on him? It didn't seem like it, but there had been that odd expression. 

Sam was getting really good at pushing difficult things out of his mind.

“What?” Dean looked surprised that Sam had asked, as though he didn't know how awkward his stare was becoming. 

“I mean...” Dean trailed off and then picked up again. “Should you be changing while Charlie's here? Seems kinda impolite, man.” Oh. So that was what Dean was upset about. Odd. Dean had never seemed to have a problem with Sam changing before. And whatever he had said, Sam was fairly certain Dean wasn't worried about Charlie's feelings now. Very odd. 

“Don't mind me,” Charlie input chirpily. Sam noticed that no matter how cheerful her voice sounded, there was something a little strange in how she looked at Dean. But when she spoke again, her voice was normal and Sam was sure he had simply imagined it. “It really isn't all that interesting and I've seen men naked before.” Dean's throat worked soundlessly for a moment at that. For a moment, Sam didn't think that Dean was going to be able to figure out something to say to that. Then:

“Hey! Men are plenty interesting! And Sammy here's a nice example,” exactly what Dean had just said seemed to hit him a moment later. “I mean, with genetics like that, how couldn't he be?” There was something too flat about the explanation, but Sam just started on the buttons of his shirt. Whatever Dean had going on, he'd work it out. Maybe he was feeling a little bad in comparison. Sam had been working out more lately. 

***

When they got back to the motel the next night, muddy and worn out, Dean fell onto his bed with a sigh. 

“Man, that was awesome! We have got to do that again some time.” Sam smiled indulgently. Trust Dean to find something that involved whacking other people with fake swords amazing. To be honest, it had been fun, just letting go for a while. He hadn't even had to think about not saying things about monsters, demons, everything. Anything he said, the other players just took as part of the game. To be honest, it had been one of the freest moments he'd had in... in a long time. He smiled, again, this time a little more in agreement.

“It was kind of cool. But now I've got mud sticking all my hair together, which is just disgusting.” Dean looked as though he was about to start in on one of the long 'you should cut your hair' conversations. But when he spoke, it was just to offer Sam the first shower. Sam smiled, this time completely grateful. He saw Dean's eyes tug into a smile of their own, though his mouth remained slack, relaxed.

The shower was hot as Sam stepped into it, and at first he didn't think of anything except scrubbing the grime from his hair, and then his skin. But after a while of thinking about their second encounter (first real encounter) with LARPing, Sam was brought up short by the look that had been on Dean's face when they had been changing in Charlie's tent. 

He'd always liked working things through in the shower. Dean made fun of him for it, suggested other reasons for why Sam always took so long in the shower. “Have trouble finishing up?” He'd taunt. It was always easier for Dean. He just did the right thing, didn't have to worry about it, think everything through and figure out how to deal. He just was, was always. In a way, that was what had made the moment in the tent all the more odd. Sam could have sworn there was a hint of nerves, of indecision in Dean's eyes. 

And there had been the way that those eyes had slid over Sam's chest as he had turned around. Sam started a little, hot water splashing down over his shoulders. If Dean had been staring at Sam's chest when he turned, that meant he had been staring at Sam's back before. Sam felt himself tense a little, a buzz running through him. He was fairly certain Dean must have only been staring at some new scar, some muscle that hadn't been as defined the last time they had spent any significant period of time with each other shirtless. 

And even though his mind was fairly sure, the whisper had started to spin a story that wrote Dean's eyes a little lower, the flick up to Sam's face simply the continuation of a flick up from lower down when Sam had had his back turned. 

Sam felt himself give a little huff of a moan, blood rushing down from his head. The whisper had grown a little bigger, becoming a picture that he only let himself have when he couldn't push it down any more. If there was ever a time that shoving didn't work, this was the time. 

And, another traitorous whisper said, didn't you decide that listening was the smarter idea. That was the end. Sam dragged his hand across his abs, touching lightly, grabbing the conditioner with the other. He squeezed a little out and coated a hand in it. Then, resting one hand on the side of the shower, he dragged his slick fingers back down his torso. 

The first tease of his fingers across his cock had him almost panting. He could almost see the tent in his mind, Dean standing behind him as he unbuttoned his shirt. As he started to stroke, slow and loose, the image solidified. Dean was staring at Sam with the look Sam had seen so many times directed at a bartender, a pool player. It was somewhere between an invitation and a taunt, something wanting yet not too desperate. Sam ghosted his fingers across his balls and stifled a groan. The Dean in his head had slid his eyes from Sam's back to his ass. Now, Dean had the expression Sam had only seen him wear one or two times when jerking off, a look of lust so complete it felt like it burned. He'd never seen Dean wear it during a hook up, and he'd seen more than a few of those. Yet the Dean in his mind was wearing it now. 

Sam started to jerk himself just a little harder, twisting and then ghosting one finger across the sensitive head, spreading precome across it. He's turning in his mind, catching Dean before his brother can flick his eyes up to Sam's face. And now Dean is focused on the button of Sam's jeans. His brother's tongue flicks out to lick across across one of those perfect lips and the Sam in his mind can feel his cock jump a little, pressing against the seam in his jeans. 

Sam could feel his cock pulsing in sympathy, aching to be the Sam in his mind. The Dean there is crossing the room in a stumbling rush, grabbing at Sam's torso. He starts to slide his hand across Sam's chest, caressing every curve, every muscle. 

“Fuck.” The Dean in his mind slurs, lust roughening his voice. He starts to flick open Sam's jeans, then slides the zipper open. Now his hand is on Sam's dick, tugging it out and he shoves boxers and jeans down to Sam's jeans. Then, then, Dean slides his mouth across the head, hovering over the slit, not touching. 

“Dean,” Sam groans, feeling desperate, buzzing, frantic. Dean smiles up at him mischievously, then takes Sam's cock in his mouth, a long swallow. 

Sam came out of the fantasy as Dean's mouth started to work him. He could feel himself pulsing helplessly, spurts of come painting the wall of the shower and then getting washed away. The fantasy had been so real, so much like and yet unlike what had really happened, that Sam had let himself have the moment, had let himself hope. As he came down from the high of his orgasm, the high of Dean's mouth on him, no matter how imaginary, Sam realized he'd been in the shower for a bit longer than was normal even for him. 

He rinsed himself off, trying not to think about what he had just done. Yes, it wasn't the first time, and yes, it had been good. More than good, Sam's traitorous mind reminded him as he toweled off. It had been fucking perfect, so perfect he couldn't even finish the fantasy. Tying the towel about himself, he stepped out into the room, eyes firmly away from Dean. 

“Have fun?” Dean's voice had a bit of smirk on it. 

“I had mud in my ears! In my ears, Dean.” To Sam, it sounded a little weak, an excuse. Dean seemed to accept it though. 

“Well since you've finally managed to pry the mud out of whatever cracks you got it in, I finally get to take my shower. Don't wait up, bitch.”

“Jerk.” Sam said halfheartedly, as he clambered into his bed, clean boxers on. He could feel himself about to drift off, exhausted.

***

Sam was woken from his half sleep by the soft slide of someone else into his bed, a few minutes after his mind registered the shut off of the shower.

“Dean?” He murmured sleepily. 

“No, its your fairly godmother,” his brother said crankily. “Of course its me.”

“Whatcha doing?” Sam managed to slur out. He was sure they had gotten two beds. Maybe Dean just though his was nicer. Sam felt himself come a little more awake at that. Why was Dean in his bed?

“There's mud all over mine,” Dean responded, and Sam realized that he had said the last part aloud. “Just scoot over, bitch” And then Dean was sliding into the warm spot Sam had pulled himself away from, arms wrapping around the pillow in a loose sprawl. Sam was sure that he was supposed to object to Dean's being in his bed, supposed to do something about this. But he couldn't get the energy to do so.

His last though before drifting off was that he hoped he didn't wake up curled around Dean. Humping his brother's leg might be too tempting for the whisper.


	3. Confessions at Bedtime (Episode 8.12)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They take time to work some of Sam's issues out.

Sam wasn't exactly sure why it kept happening. That first night, he had been too exhausted to protest when Dean had slipped under the covers with him. And honestly, when he had woken up, he'd noticed there really was a lot of mud on Dean's bed. So it wasn't totally illogical that his brother had though it was good idea to slip into bed with him. It had happened once or twice again before, when they hadn't been able to get a motel room with two beds, or just after Dean's deal when he hadn't wanted to let Sam out of his sight. 

So when Sam woke up the next morning, things hadn't been too awkward. They had headed off into the middle of the country and smack dab into the middle of a mess. Sam hadn't really been sure why Dean was taking Henry's appearance quite as badly as he was until the moment in the graveyard. It was like a twisted mirror of Dad, but this time, Dean had years more of experience, knew so much more. Henry thought they were just as ignorant, as helpless, as Dad had tried not to make them, yet he also had this shortsightedness that was just like Dad. He wanted to fix what had happened, to go back, no matter the consequences. It was just the sort of thing Da would have done, shoot first and ask questions later. 

So all in all, Sam was half glad that they could simply have done with the entire mess once Henry had died. It wasn't like he thought the man should have died or anything. No, it was more that the entire time Henry had been around them, Dean looked like... well like his heart was being squeezed by something. 

***

They had pulled up outside of some middle of nowhere motel in the middle of Illinois and Dean had clambered out of the car while Sam was still trying to extricate himself from the fuzziness of the daze he had let himself drift off into. By the time he had heaved himself up and wandered over to the door of the motel office, Dean was already in deep discussion with the manager. Sam took a bit of a double take. Deep discussion wasn't usually Dean's mode of operation around motel managers, especially if they weren't particularly good looking. This time, though, it looked like he was planning something with the man, or at least confirming something already discussed. Sam pushed open the door, a little anxious to find out what his brother had in mind. 

“So you're sure one king is alright?” The manager was saying. Sam sighed. Apparently that had been what they were discussing. Apparently, as well, Dean had decided that sharing a bed was a better idea than simply moving on to find the next motel. Sam laughed a little silently. They hadn't seen a motel for the last hour of the drive. Dean probably just didn't want to sleep in the car again. 

“Yeah. Sammy here'll just have to sleep on the floor for once.” Dean smirked over his shoulder at Sam then handed the man a card. “By the way, where could a man buy some beer here abouts?" Dean was all charm, yet something was off. It wasn't like they needed beer, with a six pack in the car. Dean had something in mind. Maybe he wanted to blow off steam after the drive away from Henry's grave, try to push some of it away in the tried and true Winchester method. 

Sam paused. Maybe it wasn't the Winchester method after all. From what he had seen of Henry, dealing with things was more the Winchester method. Thinking them out, being intellectual about them. Sam thought that at one time, he might have been glad to learn that. Maybe he would have felt like he fit in better, into a family of secrets and magic rather than a family of mechanics. Now, he wasn't so sure. He wasn't sure he could have ever fit into that family could have ever had what he had wanted. Would he have been able to go through life knowing what was there but not doing anything about it? He didn't think so. And yet, it didn't really matter. He wasn't going to need to worry about that again. The choice had been made. 

Dean pushed open the door and revealed a slightly sagging king sized bed with a putrid green cover. Dumping the bags next to it, he walked over to the small kitchenette and shoved the six pack into the fridge. Sam was abruptly brought out of his musing by the sight before him. Dean's jeans, tight as always, had stretched across his ass in a way that literally made Sam's mouth water. The whisper started up, just as it always did at moments like this. He could just walk across the room, palm across the top of those jeans. He could stroke down them, one finger running across the dimples at the base of Dean's spine. 

“Hey. I'm gonna go make a run to that store. Y' wanna come?” Dean's voice cut through the whisper, and Sam found that his own jeans were starting to feel a little tighter than they should have. Willing Dean not to notice, he shook his head. 

“So what d' ya wanna do tonight? You're trying for something” Sam was proud of how steady his voice was, especially when he caught the mischievous look in Dean's eyes. 

“Just thought we could have a quite night here. Watch some crap on TV, get drunk to Henry's memory. I don't really want to think about anything too complicated tonight.” Dean's voice was level, but Sam caught the hint of a question in Dean's hands, the flutter they started to make towards a gesture. Dean wanted to avoid people for now. Sounded good to Sam, as long as he could get things between him and his dick sorted before Dean came back.

“Sounds fine. Get something green to eat will you?” Dean gave him a disgusted look and slammed the door on the way. 

 

The moment Sam heard the Impala pulling out of the motel parking lot, he started to pop the button of his jeans. Over the course of the conversation, he had felt himself getting harder and harder, no matter how he willed himself not to. He didn't remember things being like this before Dean came back from Purgatory, didn't remember things being so urgent, so immediate. Maybe it was because he had finally given in, had realized that this was going to be the rest of his life, pining over Dean and girls (or boys) to fuck in a bar. Maybe he had just given in on being the least bit normal.

All he really knew, thought, was that the whispers were getting worse, the nagging at the back of his mind every time Dean did something as normal as bend over. Sam sank down onto the bed, about to pull out his cock. After a second he leapt up again. He didn't want to explain any odd wet spots to Dean when they had to share the bed that night. Stripping off the rest of his clothes, Sam hurried into the bathroom.

He felt like he had been doing this a little too much recently. Ducking into the shower at random intervals, pulling his cock with Dean's face in him mind. There had been the motel with Henry, where they had slept in one bed the first night Henry had been there, leaving the other to their grandfather. Sam had woken up at five in the morning, dick hard and pressed up against Dean's thigh. He had darted frantically into the shower, grateful that neither his brother nor Henry had woken up before he was done. 

This time, he had two recent memories of Dean pressed warm against him in bed, a thousand little moments to choose from as he started to stroke himself. There had been the moment when Dean had pulled out a black t-shirt, one that Sam didn't think his brother had worn since the year that he picked Sam up from Stanford. It had been far too tight, stretched across Dean's bulked up muscles obscenely. Sam had cleared his throat, trying to get Dean to notice that maybe he should find a different shirt. Of course Dean had glanced at him and given him a “what the fuck is wrong with you?” look and Sam had been forced not to say anything else. Dean had flopped down onto the bed, shirt riding up to reveal those same dips in his spine. 

Sam sped up his fist on his cock a little. It wasn't really quite enough though. He hadn't been with someone in too long, things were starting to get twisted up. When Dean had slumped down onto the bed, all Sam could see was himself pushing between Dean's legs, licking down his spine, one palm between Dean's shoulder blades to hold him down to the bed. He twisted his wrist a little, then pressed at the sensitive spot underneath the head. The friction was beautiful. Then, sliding the his other hand across his abs, he stroked at his balls, lifting them a little, fingers playing over the velvety skin. 

Sam knew he was a little more... adventurous... than Dean when it came to sex. Maybe Dean had just not had to opportunity to get to experiment like Sam had. It did take a level of trust that most people wouldn't give in a one night stand. But in Sam's mind, he could make Dean do whatever he wanted. He flipped the Dean in his mind over, too tight shirt still sliding up and revealing the two sharp points of his hips. Sam could almost feel himself pushing Dean's wrists into the mattress, holding his brother down with one hand. He would slide a leg up between them, push against Dean's cock while stroking himself, getting himself off while not quite giving Dean enough friction to come. 

Sam moaned a little. There were so many things he could do with the Dean in his mind, perfect fantasies of ropes and knives and wax. He was too close now, though, and Dean would be back from the store too soon. Now he only pushed Dean's hands harder down in his mind, wrapping his hand tighter around his own cock. He stroked the hand cupping his balls down and pressed at the spot behind them, feeling sharp pleasure arch through him. The Dean in his mind licked his lips, and Sam could see himself come all over that pretty face, painting it with streaks of himself. 

***

Sam had finished putting on a new pair of jeans by the time Dean got back, paper bag in hand and pizza and a plastic bag clutched in the other. 

“I even got green peppers on it, just for you.” Dean smirked at him. Sam was sure the pizza was loaded with some sort of meat to make up for the vegetable that Dean had grudgingly allowed onto it. He was surprising that Dean had even given in that far. He smiled in thanks. Even peppers were better than nothing. 

“What's in the other bags?” He could guess what was in the paper one, some sort of alcohol for whatever his brother was planning. The plastic was another story. They didn't really need more food, and as far as he could remember, they weren't running out of shampoo or anything like that. 

“This one,” Dean smiled, holding up the paper bag, “has a fifth of Jack. This one,” the plastic this time, “has apple pie. Homemade apple pie! There was a bakery open!” Dean looked like someone had told him Christmas had come early. Or, Sam mentally revised, not like that. Christmas had never been the best Winchester holiday. No, Dean looked like he had gotten to burn something, gotten a regular haunted house to hunt. Sam couldn't help cracking a smile in response. He didn't think he'd seen Dean that carefree looking in a long time. Maybe Henry had give his brother some sort of closure, some way of thinking about their family that didn't make him want to scream at fate. Or maybe not. Maybe it was just the moments of relative calm they'd had lately. It seemed like they'd had something out to get them for years, first angels and demons, then the freaking mother, and finally the leviathans. Finally, it seemed like they were just trying to work on problems one at a time, that they were the searchers, rather than being hunted. Dean's voice shook him out of his musing, as usual.

“No brooding tonight, Sam.” Sam made a small noise of protest in response. He had not been brooding. “Yes you were,” Dean said to his unspoken response. “And I say, not tonight. Tonight, you and I are going to eat pizza and get drunk together. Be brothers.” Sam winced. His thoughts had been getting steadily less brotherly. It was just like Dean to unintentionally bring up the problems Sam was trying to avoid. Or maybe, Sam thought a little ruefully, he just brought those problems up himself. After all, he was the one staring at Dean's ass again as his brother fumbled with glasses in the kitchenette. 

“Ok, so this is how this is going to go. We're going to put on some sort of syfy channel horror thing, and every time they get something wrong about the supernatural, we're gonna drink.” Sam winced. Dean was serious about this getting drunk thing. What was he trying to do. And why? He debated for a moment asking Dean what he was up to then sighed. Wasn't likely that Dean would answer. 

***

An hour later they had watched part of The Omen, jeering at the inaccuracies and drinking most of the fifth Dean had bought earlier. Sam was just about to wonder at why Hollywood though people were scared by some of this when Dean turned to him, shock painted bright across his face. 

“What the fuck, Sammy?” Sam shrugged. He had no idea what Dean was on about now. “When did you stop getting tipsy at six shots? We've drank the same amount and I swear, you ain't any more out of it than I am.” Sam winced this time. Trust Dean to notice something like this. And comment on it. 

“Um... maybe you've just forgotten. We haven't really gotten drunk together in... a long time.” Even to Sam, his stuttered excuse sounded only passable, at best. Dean shook his head vehemently, apparently he wasn't buying it either. 

“Nah man, I'd remember something like you matching me drink for drink. What happened?” Sam was fairly certain he wasn't drunk enough to be having this conversation. Pulling over the bottle, he poured two more fingers out into one of the crappy motel glasses and knocked them back, the slight burn and subsequent buzz only making him more sure this wasn't a good conversation to be having. Particularly with how Dean's eyes tracked him the entire time, darted to his throat as he swallowed. He wasn't really sure what was going on, but he was absolutely certain he didn't want to talk about this. 

“Nothing Dean. I don't think we should worry about this.” And again, Dean wasn't buying it. His eyes had twisted up in the way they always did when he was worrying about his little brother, and for some reason it made Sam's stomach twist in a familiar way. Somewhere between arousal and something deeper, something that he didn't need to be worrying about during this talk.

“No way, Sammy. Anything you don't want to talk about is something that really fucking needs to be gotten out in the open.” And Dean gave him the mother of all big brother looks, somewhere between _I love you, now do what's right_ and _if you don't tell me, I'll fucking beat the shit out of you_. Sam could feel himself cracking, walls threatening to tumble down and words spill out. He took a breath, trying to come up with a good way to start this. Then Dean smiled at him, the encouraging smile he always got when he knew that Sam needed someone at his back. It was too much. 

“There wasn't anyone this time.” Dean looked confused, but Sam's mouth didn't seem to want to stop talking now, now that he had decided to talk. “You were gone, Cas was gone. Bobby was fucking dead and everyone else has been gone for too long. I didn't even have someone like Lisa to run to.” Dean winced at the mention of Lisa, but Sam didn't stop. He had to finish now that he had started. “I was fucking alone. And there wasn't even something like getting you back from hell or fighting Lilith. I had nothing Dean.”

Dean started to say something, started to try to understand, but Sam could feel the words coming out, just like the whispers sometimes pushed too hard. There was nothing for it.

“Last time, I'd work for something, find the crossroads demon, something like that. And things would be alright until someone told me they couldn't do anything, until I remembered how things really were. Then I'd just give up, go to a bar and drink 'till they cut me off, go back to some dead end room and drink some more. This time there wasn't even fucking Ruby left.” Dean winced again, like he always did at Ruby's name. Sam felt sorry, in the back of his mind, sorry to have brought her between them again. But he couldn't feel too bad about it, not with the last year welling up through him like blood in an open wound. “Remember what you said it was like when you were with Lisa? Imagine if you hadn't known where I was, hadn't known Bobby was there helping. That's what it was like for me, for months. And even when I had Amelia, she was just as screwed up.” He trailed off, not really sure about how to start the next part. Dean took the pause in the conversation to stutter out a question. 

“Fuck Sam. I'm sorry. But what does this have to do with you not getting drunk?” Sam gave a heavy sigh. 

“Look, last time it was hard enough to stop drinking because Ruby made me. Last time it was only about a month, and mainly only frantic binges sometimes. This time, it was like I couldn't even get up in the morning without you. I needed something to dull it, to stop me from looking around for you every moment of the day. My God, Dean. It was like I was missing some part of myself and I didn't even fucking know where to look for it. I looked around everywhere and you just weren't fucking there. I used to wake up screaming, dreaming of you disappearing from right beside me and never getting you back.” Dean shuddered and looked so insanely apologetic Sam almost stopped then and there. But he had started the story. Now he had to finish. 

“I guess it got pretty bad. I dunno what really would have happened if I hadn't met Amelia. With her, I guess things went down to only a few drinks a day. I was a wreck, so much more than she was. You know we met because I hit a dog with the car. I don't even think I was really drunk. Just so used to being buzzed I didn't realize I'd had a little too much. She helped. But I guess things are still... not quite like they were before...” His voice trailed off. He was fairly certain this was not what Dean had wanted when he'd asked. What the hell he had expected, Sam wasn't sure, but talking about the time Dean was in Purgatory wasn't it. Dean looked like he'd been hit in the face with a board, stunned.

“Fuck, Sam. I'm sorry.” Sam felt his eyebrows twist up quizzically. What was Dean apologizing for? Dean apparently read the confusion for what it was, because he continued almost immediately. “I didn't mean to ride you so hard when I came back. I didn't know how bad things had gotten. All I saw was how good you looked.” Sam shivered a little, then reminded himself that neither did Dean mean that the way Sam wanted him to, nor was this the time and the place to be thinking about that sort of thing.

“It wasn't your fault, man. And really, I should have found you.” Sam could feel guilt twisting at his gut, pulling him seductively. 

“Fucking hell no, you shouldn't have. I was in fucking Purgatory. There isn't any way to get humans in or out of there. Stop beating yourself up about this.” Sam smiled a little. He should have saved Dean. But at least Dean didn't still blame him for not doing it. Sam shifted uncomfortably. He wasn't really sure what to do now. The comfortable togetherness was gone from the evening, movie forgotten in the background. Dean had even pulled away from where he had been slumped half against Sam during the movie, looking seriously at him from across the bed. The Sam realized what had to be done. 

“Look Dean, can we just not bring this up again? No chick flick moments, right?” Dean smiled. The tried and true Winchester denial at work. Hey, Sam rationalized, if it worked for the whispers, it would work for this.

“Fucking yes.” And that was the end of that.

***

The rest of the movie passed in relative silence, the bottle of Jack getting finished somewhere close to the end. Sam was starting to really feel the buzz, more shots in a shorter time than he was used to now, thank god. Dean smiled up at him lazily from where he had relaxed back into the mattress somewhere in the last half hour. His side was pressed against Sam's warm through the single layers they both still had on. 

“Y'know,” Dean rolled the words across his tongue, seeming to savor each one, “if I'd gotten you drunk, I was planning to get you to spill your deep dark secrets.” He grinned up at Sam, and Sam was seized with the almost overwhelming temptation to smooth one hand down the side of Dean's face. There was something too perfect about the way his brother was looking up at him, like all of his secret fantasies rolled into one. 

“Dean, I don't have deep dark secrets. Or at least, any that you don't know.” The lie burned a little, but Sam was fairly sure that Dean wasn't looking for the sort of secrets that started with _I want to fuck_ and ended with _my brother_. Usually those weren't the best sort of secrets. (Sam knew something about that from college. Thank God he hadn't quite admitted that. Saying he wanted to fuck other guys more than girls had been embarrassing enough.)

“Nah, man, you so do. Like what about that dude you were staring at the other day. What was that about?” Sam shrugged, trying to figure out what Dean was talking about. “The guy when we were handing out with Charlie. The hot one?” Sam couldn't remember anything about that day except his shower later that night. Then, suddenly, he could see the guy Dean was talking about in his mind. He had been trying to distract himself from how Dean looked in his mail, and had spotted a guy who was fairly hot. It had been a good way to distract himself from the whispers, substituting the guy's face in for Dean's every time Sam had an unwanted NC-17 moment. He still wasn't sure what Dean wanted to know, though. Some of his memory must have shown on his face, though, because Dean perked up like a bloodhound with a scent. “You thought he was hot, didn't you?” Sam wasn't sure what to do. It wasn't like Dean thought his little brother was boringly vanilla (in fact, Sam and Dean were both perfectly aware that Dean was the vanilla one.) But Sam being more than a little interested in guys was something they hadn't really talked about. 

“Fuck off, Dean.” Probably not the best response in the world, but Sam couldn't really come up with anything else. 

“You did!” Dean practically crowed with triumph. “I fucking knew it. How long you wanted to fuck guys, Sam?” Sam winced a little. Trust Dean to get to it in one. “Look man, ain't nothing to be ashamed of. I know this discovering your sexuality thing is hard...” Dean trailed off. For a moment Sam though he was being serious, supportive and caring. Then he caught the gleam in the back of Dean's eyes.

“You little shit!” Sam was pissed. “I'm fucking not discovering anything. I've been fucking guys since I was sixteen, if you'd really like to know.” Sam smiled a little at that, feeling proud of being able to respond so strongly to Dean's needling. Then he realized what Dean had done. By distracting Sam, getting his defenses up, he'd managed to get what he'd wanted out of Sam. To be honest, Dean looked a little shocked.

“Sixteen? I didn't get there till twenty. Fuck Sam. You always were a precocious little shit.” Dean looked slightly awestruck now, but Sam wasn't really paying attention. He was still fixed on the idea that Dean was a) ok with the fact that Sam was most definitely into guys, and b) was apparently into them himself. Sam could feel himself starting to get hard at the idea that Dean had been with a guy, would be able to go things no virgin ever could. He willed himself to relax with more than a little use of some rather unpleasant images of Bobby in a bathtub. He still had to sleep in the same bed as Dean and manage not to molest him in his sleep. Dean looked like he was about to say something again, but Sam cut him off. If they talked about this any longer, there was no way Sam would be able to sleep in the same bed as Dean without something happening. 

“Ok, confession time is over, Dean. Now you know. So can we please go to bed?” Dean shrugged and then busied himself with getting ready for bed. He'd aparently gotten what he set out for that evening. That was something Sam had to think about. Dean had either been aiming to find out about the year he was gone or Sam's sexuality. There was no way that whatever Dean had been planning was still to come. He'd given up without enough of a fight. And that was something to think about in the morning. For now, Sam could feel himself sinking into the mattress, more than ready to sleep.


	4. Whispers are Fed by Calm (Episode 8.13)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam and Dean deal with the repercussions of their talk the night before and find out how living in one place goes.

The next morning wasn't nearly as awkward as Sam had expected. He had woken up early, feeling warmer and more rested than he remembered feeling for a long time. It had only taken a moment to realize that some time in the night, he and Dean had rolled into each other on the bed. Now, Dean's foot was tangled across Sam's and his face was shoved as near to Sam's shoulder as possible without actually resting on it. At first, Sam didn't even think of what he was doing, only scooted in a little closer to Dean so that his brother was pressed up against him in a long line. Then, as his sleep fogged brain cleared a little, he realized what a bad idea that had been. Yes, it made him feel much better, and yes, it seemed like Dean was the one doing the cuddling, but he couldn't imagine his brother being enthusiastic about their sleeping arrangements.

After a hurried discussion with himself where Sam frantically tried to block out the whispers that seemed to think this was the way he should always wake up, he decided to simply stay in bed. If he woke Dean up now, his brother would freak out for sure. As long as he waited 'till Dean woke up on his own, there was a chance there might not be a freak out at all. 

Oddly enough, he was right. Dean woke up two hours later, rolling out of the bed without a thought about their sleeping arrangements. He did tease Sam for still being asleep, but it was worth it to only have that sort of teasing. He didn't even mention anything about the night before, leaving Sam to hope that it simply wouldn't come up again. To be honest, Sam wasn't really worried about the end of their conversation. After sleeping in the same room almost their entire lives, and in one bed for a significant portion of them, there wasn't a whole lot about sex that really stayed embarrassing for long.

Sam grimaced internally. Or at least, he thought, there wasn't a lot of relatively normal information about sex that was awkward. He was fairly sure that if he'd confessed what he'd wanted to do to Dean last night, things would have gotten awkward. Actually, they would have been far more than just awkward.

“Hey! Sammy!” Dean was snapping his fingers in front of Sam's face to get his attention. “Are you going to sit there and brood all day or are we going to find this secret library thing?” Sam shoved Dean's hand out of the way and headed into the bathroom to shave. He had a feeling today was going to be a long day. 

***

If Sam had been worried it was going to be a long day before, the thought was completely erased when he took his first step into the library. It was incredible. The sheer volume of knowledge was incredible, but what really took his breath away was the card catalogue. Dean had actually started laughing at him as Sam ran his hand reverently over the drawers.

“Sam... you're... fondling a card catalogue. What the fuck man? I know its boys and girls for you, but filing cabinets too? That's a weird kink, man!” Dean's laugh rang loud in the empty complex. Sam forced himself to relax, unwilling to let Dean ruin the moment. He did, however, let his face pull up into an expression of exasperation as he turned to Dean. Wouldn't do to let Dean think he wasn't being annoying enough. His brother might find something worse to do.

“Dean, do you realize what this means? No more endless searching through random books from the Campbell library or through things out at Rufus' cabin. We can just look them up right here.” Dean gave a seemingly unwilling grimace of agreement, apparently seeing the positives. Then he smiled for real again.

“I'll leave you to your love affair then. I'm going to see what sort of digs this place has.” And with that, Dean was off, a hurricane of energy. 

***

It seemed like no time at all until Dean came back, a streak of dust across his face. Without thinking about it too much, Sam reached out and wiped it away. He only really realized what he'd done when he felt his fingers brushing down the side of Dean's jaw just a little longer than they really should have. He pulled his hand back with a start. Dean's eyes must have closed at some point, for Sam could see them flickering open, just the smallest hint of odd warmth in them until Dean shook himself a little. Then, moving around the table to stand next to Sam, almost pressed against Sam's back to read the book Sam had out.

“Demon lore? You really think they have anything more on that here than we already know?” Sam shrugged a little. He was having trouble thinking completely clearly with Dean pressed against him. He suddenly had the almost overwhelming urge to stand up, back flattening against Dean, pushing into his brother. He forced it down and focused on what Dean had just asked. 

“Nah, not really. But Henry did know about that Knight's of Hell thing, so there might be something here.” Sam paused for a second then asked the question that had been nagging him since the confrontation with Abedon. “You know what's strange about that? If Abedon was one of Lucifer's first demons, why did she have black eyes? I mean, Alastair and Lilith both had white eyes, and Lilith was Lucifer's first. You think the eyes aren't quite the hierarchy we thought they were?” Dean grimaced slightly before replying.

“I've been thinking that ever since Ruby. I mean, she wasn't that physically powerful, but man, she had to be important to end up with a job like that. And what about Meg? She was packing some serious mojo and she only had black eyes. I dunno man, maybe they have something to do with what kind of job the demon has.” Dean looked a little uncomfortable bringing up Ruby, just as they both always did. Strangely though, Sam didn't feel quite the same tingling guilt that he usually did when talking about the demon. It finally felt like they had gotten past those issues, if only because it was five years later. Sam shrugged a little and started to turn back to his reading, but Dean interrupted him again with a tug at Sam's shoulder. 

“What?” Sam couldn't keep the slight annoyance out of his voice. 

“You have to come see the beds. Real beds, and showers, and everything. And its clean and all. Sam, this is incredible.” Sam could see the sheer excitement that had painted Dean's face, but wasn't quite sure what had caused it. Smiling in response, he stood. Oddly, it took Dean a moment to move back, leaving Sam pressed against his brother just the way the whispers had been suggesting. It wasn't long enough to become awkward, but Sam could feel a tingle of arousal working its way down his back all the same. Shoving it away he gestured at Dean to lead the way. 

The bedrooms, when they got to them, were a lot nicer than Sam had expected. Even better, each on had two queen sized beds, as though the Men of Letters had turned what were originally single rooms into doubles at some point in time. Sam breathed out a mental sigh of relief. He had been worried that Dean was going to suggest they sleep there and then they would end up sleeping in different rooms. Sam knew it was completely irrational for a man in his third decade of life to be nervous about sleeping apart from his brother, but he couldn't help it. He'd never slept in a room alone for more than a few nights in his life, not counting the terrible times when Dean had been in hell, purgatory, dead because of the trickster, or when Sam had been missing his own soul. Needless to say, he didn't have good memories of sleeping alone. 

Dean bounced into the largest room, smiling widely at Sam. Sam didn't think he could remember his brother being this happy in a long time. Plopping himself down on the bed nearer to the bathroom door, Dean let out a long sigh of contentment. 

“This one's mine” he explained, grinning up at Sam. Maybe they were finally going to be ok. They had a place to stay, no threat of death hanging over them, no angels or demons chasing them. Maybe things were going to work out for once.

***

Almost a week later, Sam thought back on his earlier optimism and scoffed. When had things ever been alright for a full week? Certainly not this time. The first day had gone well, with him reading in the library, and Dean wandering around exploring and getting to play with all the artifacts. The next day had been... less than perfect. Sam had gotten up and gone for a run with Dean, things seeming perfectly ok. He'd settled in to a long read, trying to find out what they could about angels from the library. So far, nothing he'd run across could explain Cas's odd behavior the last time they'd met, but he was determined to keep digging. Dean had seemed a little more restless, doing pushups on the floor of the library, finishing his work out near Sam. Then he'd cleaned all the guns. He'd been about to do the knives before Sam glared at him. The knives were Sam's job and he'd be damned if he'd let his brother mess with them. Dean might have been brilliant with anything that involved fire or gunpowder, but he'd never loved the knives like Sam. 

The next day was shit. They'd gone for a run, just like every morning when they weren't on a hunt, and come back sweaty and exhausted. The whispers, which Sam had been able to shove away for a few days, seemed to be back in force. They were taking advantage of the lack of stress to start introducing more adrenaline into Sam's system on their own. It didn't hurt that Dean had taken to walking around for a while after his shower in just boxers and bathrobe. Sam was sure he wasn't doing it intentionally, but the peeking sliver of Dean's chest across the table was more distracting than anything else that Dean could have come up with. Not that his brother didn't try. Dean was bored. A pop of his knuckles ever few minutes, a set of pushups, a game of darts with himself, all done with a little more noise than they should have been. The problem was, they weren't really putting Sam on edge. No, Sam could do that all on his own. 

It took 'till the next day to realize that this simply wasn't going to work. They'd had three arguments the last night, everywhere from what they should have for dinner to something odd about Sam's hair. When they started having arguments over haircuts, Sam knew something was wrong. Dean was restless, and Sam wasn't done researching.

It also wasn't until that night, that Sam realized one of the things bothering him. Ever since that night in Illinois, Dean hadn't touched anything but beer. There was a wealth of alcohol about – Sam had investigated that on the first day. Dean, though, had simply handed out the daily rounds of beer each afternoon like he usually did, not glancing anywhere else. At first, Sam didn't think of it, except to be glad that Dean didn't seem to be trying to get him drunk anymore. It was only that night, during the argument over Sam's hair, that he realized Dean was intentionally avoiding combining Sam and hard liquor. They'd been sitting at the dining table, Dean's feet propped up and Sam tapping away at his computer, not really researching but hoping to find something to distract him from the idiocy of their conversation. He'd looked up to watch Dean's face as his brother made some extravagant claim about Sam never being able to see because of his hair. He'd said something in response about how he'd never noticed it being a problem and after all, it was a his. Dean had given him a sigh, and then it had happened. His brother had glanced over at the heavy bottle of whiskey resting on a table beside them, then quickly back at Sam. He'd given an almost imperceptible grimace and a tiny shake of his head. Sam doubted if anyone who didn't know Dean as well as he did would have been able to catch it, let alone interpreter it.

Sam could. 

The first glance had been Christ, I need a drink. The second, back at Sam had gone something like but then I'd have to let Sam have some... and I don't want him drinking. Sam wasn't 100% sure why Dean was so nervous about him drinking, but he was betting it was some sort of guilt thing about the other night. Maybe that Sam had spilled so many secrets, maybe that his brother had finally taken the family advice of shoving things down and letting them come out in spurts of alcoholism and violence. Why Dean was guilty wasn't really the problem, it was that he was. 

Sam didn't really know what to do. He was fairly certain that this was another conversation he didn't really want to be having, not when they'd been snipping at each other each day. He just gave a heavy sigh in response to Dean's earlier one and hoped that everything would be better the next day. 

It might have been, it really might, except for the whispers. 

They'd gone to bed pretty soon after that, years of habit still dictating that they went to sleep at basically the same time, even though they could have stopped in this safe place of their own. Sam had slid into his pajamas, loose drawstring pants and a thin shirt, listening to Dean bang around on the other side of the room. When he had turned around though, Dean had been leaning against the wall almost lazily, looking nowhere, and right at Sam. 

It made his stomach flip over. There was something odd again in Dean's glance, something akin to what he'd thought he'd seen in Charlie's tent. And that was a thought designed to do more than simply make his stomach flip. He hurriedly pushed away the memory of the fantasy he'd had after that day, the phantom feeling of his hand stroking his cock dragging his blood downward fast. He focused on his Bobby bathtub image fast, hoping his brother hadn't noticed anything. Dean was still looking at him with that slit eyed half smile, far too relaxed against the tension that was building at the base of Sam's spine. 

“Dude. Why are you staring?” He couldn't help but ask. Anything to get Dean's eyes somewhere else, anything to push away the memory of his imaginary Dean sucking his cock. The real Dean started a little, and gave a smirk. 

“You're wearing fucking flannel pants, man. That's like, more of a cliché than usual.” Dean's voice was calm, no calculated escalation to their earlier sniping, only a slow slide of consonants. It was a little deeper than usual, and Sam couldn't help imagining it deeper still, raw from the fantasy, scraped from Sam's dick at the back of his throat.

This was not working. He grimaced at Dean and gave a dismissive shake of his head. 

“They're warm! Don't be a jerk.” Dean's smile grew larger as Sam plopped himself on the bed, pulling the covers over him and raising a knee to conceal the fact he was half hard. Sam didn't really think that Dean had noticed what was happening, but still...

“Fine, bitch. Sleep well in those flannel pants, Sammy.” And with that, Dean was under his covers as well, almost snoring the moment his head hit the pillow.

***

The next morning, Sam woke to find Dean already in the bathroom, humming Metallica with a determined buzz. His first thought was that Dean couldn't possibly be nervous about something today – they were in a fucking secret bunker. His second though was really more of one of the whispers, as slippery maybe he's nervous for the same reasons I was last night. He pushed that nonsensical idea down, unwilling to encourage the whispers from last night. As Dean slid back into the room, dripping wet, Sam hid his face in the sheets carefully, certain that looking at Dean wouldn't make things better. 

His shower was cold and perfunctory. Sam forced himself to ignore his throbbing dick. There was no way he was jerking off to his brother again. No way. 

The day went from bad to worse. By mutual agreement, they hadn't gone running that morning. Sam had argued that they needed just a little time off and by some miracle (or disaster) of fate, Dean had agreed. At this point in the day, though, Sam was feeling sure that a day off was exactly what they hadn't needed. Dean wouldn't stop fidgeting, sitting down the table from Sam in the library and tinkering with the radio. While Sam was glad that Dean had finally found something to do, he couldn't help but wish Dean would sit a little more still. His brother kept shifting around, sometimes half standing and leaning forward to reach something at the back of the radio. Dean had decided to wear only an undershirt today, warmth of the bunker like environment finally getting to him. Every time he leaned forward, though, a thin sliver of skin across his back showed. It wouldn't have been so bad, but that line was just where the two dips at the base of Dean's spine were. His pants hung low, stretched across his perfect ass, and Sam couldn't stop staring. 

Sam was just about to finally get into his book, Dean sitting a little more still, when his brother half stood again. Sam's eyes jerked upward, breath hitching a little as Dean bent forward again. This time he didn't simply reach over the back of the radio. This time, he bend his head down to the table, face pressed to one side to peer at the underside of the radio, staring at the right edge. Sam could feel himself swell almost immediately. Dean had arched his back a little to get at the right angle, ass canted into the air invitingly. His shirt had fallen forward even more, a stretch of perfectly muscled skin across his back and the swoop of his incredible abs on display for Sam. It was too much. Sam slid his eyes shut, almost unable to stop himself.

And maybe he didn't try that hard.

One moment, he was staring at Dean trying to fix a radio, the next he was imagining Dean naked, bent over the table just as he was in reality. In his mind, Sam could see Dean grin over his shoulder as Sam stood behind him, beckoning for Sam to get to work. Sam was naked as well, could feel the press of Dean's thighs against his own, Dean's ass against his cock. He could feel his own large hand pressing down against Dean's back, forcing him to stay on the table. He would smile, the half smile he still had left from then year without his soul, the half smile from his addiction. Dean had been tormenting him all day, bending over the table, sucking on his bottom lip in concentration, working it up to be plump and red. But, with Dean bent over the table, Sam could finally give him what he deserved. He'd pick up the lube (that would obviously be sitting on the table next to the radio) and slick up two fingers, fast. He'd pull back a little from Dean, even though it'd be as hard as anything to give up the slight pressure on his cock. Then he'd press his fingers forward into Dean's ass, working them slowly, inch by inch, inward. When he had at least two inside, he'd start to crook them forward, press on Dean's prostate until he was squirming under Sam's hands. 

That's when the fun would really begin. Once Sam had Dean hard and leaking, twitching every time Sam twisted his fingers, Sam would look over that beautiful ass, tilted up all for him at the edge of the table. He'd stroke his free hand lightly over it, pale skin a little too cool to the touch for what he wanted. Then he'd tell Dean all the ways he'd been bad that day. Tell him how fucking with his little brother's mind just wasn't ok. Tell him how Sam hadn't read almost a single word that day, too hard from seeing his brother's mouth, his back, a tiny sliver of skin. Once Sam had finished explaining why Dean deserved to be punished, why, then he'd start. He'd bring one hand down with a smack onto Dean's ass, fingers of the other hand still buried inside him. Once Sam had gotten Dean just the prettiest shade of pink – smack, smack, smack – then he'd start to move his fingers again. With each thwack of his hand down, he'd crook his fingers a little, pressing down on that perfect spot. He'd stroke them a little, in and out, finally fitting the third one. Sam would teach him to love the pain, timing it to the pleasure in an intoxicating mix that Dean couldn't escape. Dean would moan about them, twisting into and away from his punishment, trying to fuck himself back onto Sam's hand, trying to push away from the blow's raining down. He'd beg Sam to touch his dick, to stroke him, anything to get off. Maybe, he'd even beg Sam to hit a little harder, bruise a little more. 

“Fuck!” For a moment, Sam though he was still just imagining. Then he realized what was going on. He was sitting at the library table, imagining fucking his brother! Even worse, his right hand had crept beneath the table at some point and he was stroking his thumb across his cock, fully hard now. Sam was beginning to count himself lucky that he hadn't found his hand all the way inside his jeans, or them hanging open and him jacking off.

“Fucking hell!” Dean swore again. Sam jerked his eyes from the bulge in his own pants back to his brother across the table. Dean was standing upright now, staring down at the radio with fury in his eyes. “We cannot fucking do this any more,” Dean exclaimed. “I haven't fixed a damn thing all day, and you've been staring at the same page for the last fifteen minutes. We need to find something else to do.”

Sam wrenched his eyes away from the angry flush across Dean's cheeks and concentrated on what his brother was saying. It was true. His NC-17 moments had been getting more and more common – and distracting – since finding the bunker. Apparently relative safety made him feel more comfortable about incestuous fantasies. Who knew? Still, Dean was right that they need something different. At this rate, Dean was going to kill him, or he was... going to do something worse... unless they found a solution. 

“Yeah, I've been thinking about that,” he responded slowly. “I think I've got a solution. I can't concentrate with you here and I have no idea what your problem is, but you obviously have one. Maybe you should go check on Kevin for a few days. That way, I can work through some of the stuff here, and you can make sure he hasn't killed himself yet.” And maybe, Sam added to himself, I can figure out how to be around you without wanting to grab my dick and give a few pulls every time you smile. Dean looked at his for a moment, as if he could see the unspoken thoughts flickering in the back of Sam's eyes, but when he spoke, there was nothing of his odd expression in his voice.

“Actually sounds good to me. But you better call each day, tell me what you've learned.” Sam smiled a little. Sometimes he wondered if most married couples were as... clingy... as Dean was. Probably not. 

“Sure Dean. Just as long as you let me know what's going on with you.” There was no reason why Sam couldn't keep in touch as well...

***

By the time Dean came back, Sam was firmly convinced this was the best thing they'd done in a long time. Somehow, not being around each other for a week had turned into long talks about random crap on the phone, jokes and laughs that Sam couldn't remember them making for years. The moment Dean walked into the bunker felt like the best moment in a long time. It was relief at seeing Dean ok, happiness, and pure fun. It was also, the whisper reminded him, just a little bit of lust. Or more than a little bit.

That part hadn't gotten better over the past few days. At first, he'd tried to avoid it, jacking off to some faceless image of a guy, flat against the side of an alley wall, Sam's cock buried in his ass. Then, he'd given in to fantasies of Dean, making his brother suck him off against a wall in the library, fingers yanking at Dean's short hair. The night before, though, Sam considered a new low. He'd been talking to Dean, just talking, when something in Dean's voice had roughened, hitting that low pitched growl that never failed to make Sam twitch. Before he'd ever noticed what he was doing, he'd had his jeans open and one hand against his dick, spreading precome across the head with a broad thumb. He'd jerked himself slowly, trying to keep his breathing level as Dean complained in his ear about everything from gas prices on the way back to the fact that the motel had no magic fingers. Somehow, he'd stayed quiet enough, calm enough, that they'd finished the conversation without Dean having any idea what Sam was doing.

The instant his brother had hung up he'd shoved off the constricting pants and boxers, pulling at his dick with a press into the underside of the head at every stroke. He'd come harder than he had in a long time, memory of Dean's voice still in his ears. 

But Dean didn't know that part. And so they were happy again, friends and about to go work a case. It was perfect, if only Sam could get his dick under control.

***

It was odd how much like home the bunker already felt when they came back to it after the golem... incident. Sam threw his dirty laundry into one corner of their bedroom, thinking about how they'd need to go into the nearest town soon to clean things. He'd taken his shower and finished up before Dean, luxury of two showers shocking him once again. Dean walked out of the bedroom toweling his hair just as Sam cracked open a few beers. Dean stared at them for a moment, then pulled his out of Sam's hand and sat down at the other side of the small bedroom table, eyes tight at the corners.

Sam's stomach clenched. Just when he thought things were going so well. Dean had something to say, something to worry about. He quickly ran through the case in his mind, trying to find something he'd done wrong, something Dean was upset about. A horrible thought suddenly struck him. What if he'd done something to give himself away, moaned Dean's name in his sleep or some other nonsense. Fuck. What if Dean knew?

“Sam... I think I....” Dean stuttered a little, seeming to have to force the words out of him mouth. Sam felt a little sick, headache crowding at the edges of his mind. “I think I owe you an apology.” Sam's head went light, blood rushing to all the wrong places. He actually felt his vision grey out for a second, shock almost making him faint. He didn't remember Dean ever saying something like that straight out to him, no prompting, no anything.

“What for?” He asked, confused.

“For the way I've been acting, and for how I was treating you earlier. I know you tried your best when I wasn't here. I can only imagine how hard it was to lose me again. I only had to really lose you once, you've had so many times, I can't imagine. I guess I just didn't think about how... screwed up you probably were. And I guess I was just... jealous. Fuck, don't make me say this again.” The last had to be a response to Sam's face. He was sure he was looking like he'd been hit in the face by a two by four. Shock bubbled through him even more now, blood like champagne. It fizzed stronger when Dean started again.

“And I'm sorry about the past few weeks. I know I've been weird about things. I guess I just didn't want to see you turn out like me, like Dad. Fuck, you don't think it hurts that finally my baby brother can keep up with me drinking, has just as many issues along that line? I just... didn't know how to deal. Man, I didn't mean to make things so weird.” Dean trailed off, apparently for good this time. Sam was somewhere between rooted to the floor in shock and wanting to run away, think without the push of his brother against his mind. It took a second to sort things out in his head but then.

“Ah... thanks man. I just... I just... need a moment alone to think things through. Fuck...” and flight had most certainly won. Sam pushed himself out of the bedroom, heading to the library on instinct. He didn't know what to do, what to feel. Dean had finally apologized properly for something, had give a bit of himself away to Sam, and there was nowhere to go. Should he give in, accept that maybe, just maybe, things would be different this time? He pulled a book at random from set he'd been reading, flipping to a random page. He tried to focus on the words, but they kept blurring into Dean's voice, into 'I'm sorry.'

Sam stood up sharply, stalking to the filing cabinet in frustration. He gave a little huff of breath. This was something to do. He could add to the records, maybe avoid thinking for a while. Just as he was about to push things completely away, Dean came bounding into the library, having apparently decided Sam's moment had gone on long enough. 

“What are you doing?” Dean sounded... well... nothing like he had the moment before. Sam knew before he started to reply that his voice wasn't as well controlled, as casual as Dean's was, but there was nothing to do about it. He couldn't suddenly forget.

Dean started to pull some beers out and Sam almost sighed. It was all well and good for Dean to apologize in name, but he should have known that his brother wouldn't actually put the apology into practice. Then, as though a switch had been flipped in Dean's mind, his brother pushed the beers back into their cooler. Sam almost didn't notice the comment about the JI and the Men of Letters as Dean headed over to the whiskey on the side board. As Dean handed him his glass, Sam glanced down, not wanting to understand the expression across Dean's eyes. 

Maybe, just maybe, he could accept. Maybe this time, things really were different. They had a base, a new ally, Garth and Kevin were alright, they were finally alright. Maybe this time would work. Sam took a long sip of the whiskey. Maybe it was perfect.


	5. Perfect Darkness (Episode 8.14)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam thinks things are finally perfect.

It was perfect. Even when Dean suggested that they each get permanent – separate – bedrooms, it was still the best thing Sam could ever remember. Well, to be honest, he hadn't been too happy about that to begin with. Dean had first suggested it the day after the whiskey night, looking around at the doubles and commenting that they really didn't need to keep sleeping in the same room any more. Sam was able to admit that not being too happy might have been an understatement. Frankly, he'd flipped. It wasn't even a feeling he could name, not one he'd ever had before. He'd felt his heart speed up, palms go slick with sweat, breath come out in sharp little pants. But it was more than that. The back of his throat had felt swollen, his stomach tight and roiling. It was like the worst panic he'd ever had, even worse than the day he'd left for Stanford, worse than when the hell hounds had come with Dean. Those times, it hadn't been Dean trying to leave him. This time, he had everything he wanted, and Dean didn't want it, didn't need to be near him the way he needed to be near Dean. 

“Sam? Sam, are you ok?” Dean had asked him, concern sharpening his voice. Sam had pulled himself back from that edge, given a bit of shrug. 

“Just surprised. I mean, we've never really had our own rooms.” Dean had smiled at him. 

“Sam, we've never had a fucking house to have rooms in. Look, I just figured that some of the last few week's crap has been because we haven't had enough time for ourselves. I mean, we usually at least get some time to work on leads in different parts of town. This way, when one of us gets pissy, we can get out of each other's space for a while.” And when Dean had explained it like that, Sam could see his brother was right, could accept that maybe, just this once, Dean had figured out the solution to their problems. His brother didn't want not to be around him. He just wanted things to work right again. 

That thought lasted 'till the end of the day. They said good night in the library, whiskey glasses trained and – shockingly – washed. They'd headed back to the living quarters and Sam had walked into the room they'd been staying together in without a thought. It was only when he turned to Dean to mention something about doing laundry the next day that he remembered that his brother wasn't there with him. Sam had shivered a little, the emptiness getting to him, then had slid into his pajamas and crawled into bed, hoping it wouldn't take him a long time to fall asleep.

At five in the morning, he'd finally conceded defeat. There had been no chance he was falling asleep the rest of the night. It was too quite, too much like the year that had just finished, like the months with Dean in Hell, with Dean dead because of Gabriel. He'd gotten up to go work in the library. As he'd passed Dean's new room, he'd noticed the light was on, Dean humming something under his breath. Sam had felt a wave of tiredness crash over him, felt himself sink down to rest against the wall next to Dean's door.

That was where Dean had found him a few hours later. 

“Sammy? What the fuck are you doing out here?” Sam had woken up with a start, surprised that he'd fallen asleep.

“Dean? Couldn't sleep.” His brother had glanced at him then, something odd and dark in the depths of his eyes. He hadn't said anything though. He'd just reached down, heaving Sam back onto his feet, muttering something about pancakes. 

That night it was just as bad. Sam couldn't even jerk off, nervous as he was, staring about the room, wondering where Dean was. Finally, as the clock showed 1 am, he got up. He'd fallen asleep outside Dean's room the night before, he could do it again. He'd made his way down the hall and noticed that Dean's door was open this time. His brother was lying face up on the small bed. At first Sam had thought Dean was asleep. He'd crept silently into the doorway, sliding down the wall just inside to curl up and sleep. Then Dean's voice had hissed in the pale light filtering in from the hall.

“Just get over here. Neither of us can sleep.” And something right behind Sam's collar bone had unhitched, chest loosening for the first time since Dean had purposed separate rooms. He'd crawled into the bed next to Dean, falling asleep the moment his head hit the pillow. 

And so things were perfect. They slept in Dean's room at night, no comment made about how instead of sleeping in two rooms, they'd gone from sleeping in two beds to sleeping in one. They still both had their own room, places they could escape to when things got to be too close. But they could also sleep, feet tangled together, arms sometimes ending up tight about one another. 

It was everything Sam had ever dreamed of. Sleeping in a bed with someone he loved, research during the day, watching Dean fix the million broken pieces of equipment scattered around the library. Then Dean had made the hamburger, and it had flitted through Sam's mind that there was nothing better than this. He was sure that if he went back to heaven now – slim chance of that happening – his and Dean's heavens would finally match, tangled up together in the library. 

***

Nothing ever stayed perfect for the Winchesters. The moment Kevin called, it was like a train slamming to Sam's beautiful fantasy, shoving it out of the way down the fucked up tracks of the Winchester family saga. Nothing every stayed right. 

And no one every stayed right. Sam had wanted not to believe it, had wanted to think that all the things Ellen had said those years ago, all the times that people had said that he and Dean hurt people, really hurt them, were a lie. Had wanted to think that his and Dean's tangled up life wasn't what Lisa thought it was, wasn't so turned in to each other that everyone who loved them were eventually sacrificed to it. With Kevin standing in front of him, smelling like he hadn't showered in weeks, piss and vomit clear in the air, there wasn't much way to avoid it. 'I'm in AP' Kevin, cello playing, scholarship student Kevin, was something darker, far more desperate, and it was all his and Dean's faults. Kevin wanted to go back to his old life. Looking around, Sam knew there was no chance. Once fucked up, fucked up forever. And it was their fault. 

And the pills wouldn't help. Dean could think that getting the job done faster, washing away Kevin's pain, was a good thing, but Sam knew better. Train wreck that Kevin was, Sam wouldn't be surprised to come back one day and find the boy spread out across the table, blood in rivers from his nose, stroke painted clear across his face. 

Sam shoved the idea away. Things would work out, they had to. If there was any fucking justice in the world, he and Dean could have the library, could have at least that. They'd already lost everything else, everyone else. Was it too much to hope that they'd get just that one thing together?

***

The farm was a little more manicured than Sam had expected, the Cassidys a little more nouveau riche. Ellie was a pleasant surprise, down to earth and not at all in awe of the Cassidy wealth. She was a pleasant surprise, that was, until Sam noticed the decidedly interested look she was giving Dean in the barn. Then something dark and smokey twisted deep in his stomach. It had something of the same ache as demon blood always had; pushing his veins wider, predatory relaxation of his spine, fingers clenching tighter on the handle of his rake. Only, it wasn't something external, something he'd ingested, put into himself.

No, this feeling was all Sam, just a bigger twist of the jealousy that always painted his throat when Dean gave those eyes to a girl. Yet, somehow, this time it was different. There wasn't really intent in Dean's eyes. Sam forced the hate away, shoving his rake back into the shit they were supposed to be shoveling, feeling like, for once, there was a perfect metaphor staring him in the face. Perfection. It was starting to look a lot worse. 

***

Of course, when it turned out that everyone and their sister (literally) had made a deal with Crowley, Sam thought things couldn't get worse. It really shouldn't have come as a surprise that he was wrong. Again. He'd thought that Dean had seemed off since Kevin first mentioned the tasks, but now he was sure. His brother had fucking given up. As Dean talked at him, not even asking what Sam wanted, he could feel it building up, pushing at him just like the jealousy, the hate, the anger that he always felt so deep but kept pushing away. 

He wanted to scream at Dean, to yell that the light at the end of his tunnel was Dean. His perfect reality was Dean and the library. It was his heaven. What the fuck did Dean think he was doing, taking that away? Did he honestly think Sam could ever be happy with him dead, again? At least he could have had the courtesy of asking what Sam wanted, of treating him like an adult for the first time in fucking thirty years. But no, Dean had to go and take perfect away from him, take the dreams and the hope. 

He couldn't even speak, anger, sadness pulsing through him so that he felt his blood was made of them. Dean had given up just when Sam had finally found contentment. How did he think Sam would be able to function without him. They couldn't even sleep in separate rooms. So fucking selfish.

***

It was almost a relief when he slashed across the Hell Hound's throat, slip slide of blood pouring across him, heat familiar in a way he didn't want to think about. A small splatter flicked up to his lips and Sam couldn't stop himself before he flicked his tongue out, catching the darkness with his tongue. It tasted like hatred and jealousy, like him. He thumped his head against the ground, pushing away the desire that seemed to be coating the inside of his mouth. Glancing over to Dean, he panted a little. His brother was there, was alive. He was fucking going to make sure that it stayed that way. 

Going to make sure no matter the cost, and the moment that Ellie had left there room, he was running through what he was going to say in his head. The light at the end of the tunnel was there, and he was going to take Dean to it, no matter the cost. If he could stop the apocalypse, he could end this, once and for all. And maybe, just maybe, the darkness would be gone. 

***

The motel room was warm when they got to it, heater finally not broken. Sam slammed the case of beer he was carrying down on the rickety table and turned to Dean. Maybe when it was done, the darkness would be gone, but for now, it was there, and eating him up. Even the whispers seemed to falling prey to it, chiming in about taking and owning, about giving Dean something so big that he couldn't let go of it. 

“We're staying here tonight.” He wasn't going to let Dean have even the chance to question. He needed Dean there, needed the closeness and the hope that something he did might make Dean want to stay with him. 

“Fine. But I'm going to need something to drink.” And that was that. They settled onto the bed, somehow having ended up with only one. Sam suspected that Dean needed it just as badly, needed to know that Sam was still there. He had seen the defeat on Dean's face when the spell had worked for him, the sheer horror of the idea that his brother might have to lose him again. Maybe Dean needed the moments that they were too tight together under their skin just as much as he did. 

And so things went. An hour or so later, both of them had gotten well on their way to seriously drunk, cans littering the room around them. At some point, Dean had pulled out the ever present bottle of Jack, mumbling something about how getting drunk on beer was fucking impossible. Now, the bottle rested between them as Dean idly flicked through channels, finally landing on something that resembled softcore porn. Normally, Sam would have groaned, annoyed that Dean was putting on something that had no plot but didn't even have the redeeming value of being hot. For some reason, though, he didn't mind that night.

Maybe he was just too trashed to care.

When he saw Dean's eyes flicker quickly to him and then away as though wondering why Sam wasn't objecting, he took his brother's momentary instability and ran with it. He'd been wondering since they drove away from the farm, and now he finally had the time to ask.

“Why'd you turn her down?” Dean looked perplexed, as though he had no idea who Sam was talking about. Sam wiggled his shoulders a little, trying to get more comfortable, and ended slumping a little against Dean, using his brother to hold himself up.

“Who? Ellie?” Dean sounded a little incredulous, as though he was surprised that Sam had asked. Sam snorted a little. After hearing about Dean's hook ups for years, being a little curious was only natural. Well, maybe a little more than just slightly curious. But he blamed the whispers for that. 

“Yeah. She totally would have been up for it.” Dean gave a grimace at the end of the sentence, expression mirroring the tightness in Sam's gut when he thought of Dean with a random girl. 

“Mm... just not really into it. I...” Dean flushed a little, sputtered something that sounded like “someone else... more... can't,” and then slammed his mouth shut. Sam chuckled at that, bumping his head into Dean's shoulder.

“Careful, big brother, gonna think you're loosing your touch.” And Sam was surprised he managed to get the words out as calmly as he had, 'big brother' sending entirely the wrong sort of thrill through him. As he peaked up at Dean from under his hair, though, he noticed that Dean was squirming a little too, as though not quite sure what was going on, but feeling uncomfortable in it. Yet when he spoke, it was in a voice almost perfectly normal.

“Fuck you.” and that was the end of things. Sam took a few more long drags from the bottle of Jack, and it really didn't seem that important any more. Dean hadn't fucked her, and that was all that mattered. 

***

Sam didn't remember when he'd fallen asleep, the stumble into pajamas and back into bed blurring together in his mind. He was, however, reminded of how drunk they'd been by the time they'd finally turned out the lights when he woke up in the middle of the night. 

He was plastered to Dean's back, one arm thrown across his brother's waist, cupped around him. Dean's ass was pressed against Sam, perfect and very much there. That was when Sam realized how hard he was. He wasn't just happy time, jerking off in the shower hard. No, he was middle of best sex ever, dreaming of spanking Dean on the library table hard. And he was shoved against his brother's back, tip of his cock almost coming out of his pants, almost pressing against the bare base of Dean's spine.

He couldn't remember what he'd been dreaming about, not quite. There had been Dean in it, of course. They'd been in a motel room, just as they always were. There was only a mess of sensations more than that. He could almost still feel his fingers dragging in something dark and wet on Dean's chest, pushing into Dean's ass almost roughly. There was glimmer of silver at the back of his memory. But most of all, he could remember the overwhelming need to just paint himself across Dean's mind, to sear himself into Dean's heart. He'd needed to make Dean his, to stop him from ever leaving. 

He could feel the way his fingers had twisted inside his brother, pushing at Dean's limits, just this side of painful. He remembered how Dean had squirmed on them, panting for Sam and holding his knees open so Sam could see. Sam's cock jerked a little and before he could stop himself, he was rocking forward against Dean's ass, stifling a moan at memory of his dream warmth. With an effort, he canted his hips away, trying to stop himself from rutting against Dean. He just hoped Dean was still completely asleep.

“Sammy...” Dean's voice was a muzzy mutter. He tugged Sam's arm closer around him and pushed his hips back into place against Sam. Sam almost gave a sigh of relief. Dean was still asleep. There was no way he'd be using Sam as his personal blanket if he were awake. Come to think of it, there'd be no way Dean'd let them keep sleeping in the same bed with their missing shirts – apparently forgotten in the earlier drunken haze – sweaty skin pressed together. 

Sam's cock throbbed a little, tight and closer than Sam really wanted to be while in bed with Dean. Sam knew he should get up, go figure out things in the bathroom, put on a shirt. He didn't.

He just wanted a few more minutes, a moment when he and Dean were pressed together, tangled up for real, intertwined. Right now, he felt like he could hold on to Dean till the end of the tunnel, that nothing could take his brother away. He just wanted a few more minutes like this.

It was morning before Sam woke up again.


	6. Painting His Lips Crimson (Episode 8.15)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The darkness is getting stronger, and Sam is having trouble seeing why to push it away.

The blood felt heavy at the corner of his mouth, a bit of darkness seeping from inside him, visible at last. It wasn't really a lie, was it? He was fine, Dean was fine. He had a bit of a sore throat, so what? Eating only diner food was finally catching up on him. 

Even Sam was having trouble believing that, skilled in self deception as he was. There was too much of the old feeling in the slick slide of his fingertips as he rubbed them together to get rid of the blood. It was as though the clock had turned back, and he was hiding his stained lips from Dean after taking a swig from the flask of Ruby's blood. It was the same darkness that had been flooding through his bones for the past week, the same darkness that had started pushing out the whispers.

Or maybe not pushing them out. Maybe changing them. Making them a little more desperate, a little more real. Maybe they weren't whispers any more. Maybe they were spoken words, dreams, the glint of silver in a dream. 

But it didn't matter. Dean was going to trust him. Finally, finally, Dean knew. They were in this together. Maybe Dean would accept his choice, would find the light at the end of the tunnel with him, and that light would hold them both. 

Sam slumped back against the corner of the seat, still feeling an odd sort of ooze deep in his throat. He tried to push away the sensation, swallowing a few times. It really didn't seem to help, and Sam resigned himself to another bout of screwed up sinuses. It had happened before, a little scrape at the back of his throat, hacking coughs that eventually brought up blood. The first time, Dean had panicked, rushing him to the hospital, wasting money and anonymity they didn't have. After an interminable wait, during which Dean listed all the possible reasons one could cough up blood and ended up half convinced Sam had TB, they had finally seen a doctor. Just a few minutes had confirmed it was another of Sam's lifelong battles with his sinuses. 

This had to be the same thing. 

Normally, he'd at least mention it to Dean, say something about fighting with his nose again. But Dean was so stressed about the entire tasks thing that Sam didn't bring it up. There wasn't any use in making Dean more worried. And, the back of his mind whispered, Dean might reconsider that trust thing if he knew. He might think this was something more than just another sinus infection. 

Which it wasn't.

So instead, Sam slid farther down in the seat till his body found the imprint of his perfect sleeping position. After so many years, it was like the Impala knew just the way to hold his over-large frame. It had been there when he first got in after Stanford, perfectly like home, even if nothing else was. Even after Dean had rebuilt the car all those years ago, the imprint had been there. Sometimes Sam thought that the car actually knew how much he needed that spot. She was Dean's baby, not doubt. But every time Sam curled into that corner, he felt like he had a place too, a spot inside Dean's love.

So now, head lolling back against the side of the door, he found himself drifting off, lack of sleep from the night before catching up on him.

And he slipped into a dream that immediately felt familiar. It was something Sam had always done. He'd have dreams one week and then days later, slip back into them like an old shirt, well worn and comfortable. They weren't exactly continuous narratives, but he always knew when it was part of an earlier dream. He'd usually know that they were dreams the second time as well, something about their repetitive nature helping him be more lucid. This one... well this was almost a week old. He could feel the desperation almost before the images resolved themselves. Dean was stretched out on some motel room, chest bare and pale in the half light of a neon sign filtering in through the too thin curtains. In fact, he was almost entirely naked, only a thin pair of cotton boxers slung low across his hips. In the dim, each cut of his abs was highlighted, each dip looking darker than ever before.

Sam could feel the dream emotions filling him up. First lust, spiking across him in a shimmer of piercing motes, threading through his veins. Dean seemed to be laid out just for him, still in the silent air. Then came the same fierce need to own he had felt last time. He wanted to take, to make Dean only his, to stop him from running away down the tunnel, away from the light Sam saw. 

A flicker of silver caught his eye, the same flicker he had remembered last time he had woken up from this dream. This time, though, he was more in control. He could turn his eyes, pick up the outline in the darkness. On the bedside table, inches away from Dean's outstretched arm, was Sam's tiny Gerber Mark I. He'd always loved that knife. Dad had given it to him when he turned 16, with a gruff something about how it had been good enough in 'Nam so it damn well was good enough now. It was one of the only times in his teens he'd felt his father was really looking at him, seeing him as something other than a flawed version of Dean. Guns were Dean's thing, all flash and light, impersonal and final. 

Sam had always been drawn to the knives. Even at Stanford, when he'd been trying to block everything out, he'd kept his knives under his bed, polished and ready to use. He'd take them out sometimes, just to feel them in his hands. Sometimes, when the world had gotten too stifling, too perfect, he'd drawn the Mark I across his hand, feeling the bite and thinking about how Dean was feeling this every day. 

Thinking about Dean always led to the same place. At Stanford, he'd reach down, trying to stop himself. Sometimes he'd win the battle against himself. He'd put the knife away, walk out of the room, and find something else to do with his time, a wad of toilet paper clenched in his hand to stop the bleeding. 

More often he'd lose. He'd scrabble at his jeans with his clean hand, knife laid down next to him. He'd drag the zipper down frantically, too much shoved up inside him, needing it to come pouring out of him in sweat and tears, blood and come. It never took too long, stroking at himself with only blood for lube. He'd never cut too deep, only gave himself enough to slick his hand across those few slides of his fingers, rubs of his thumb into the slit at the top of his cock. Then he'd come, semen and sweat and blood taking away some of the tightness inside him, pushing out the darkness. He'd lick off the blade of the knife, painting the inside of his mouth with the taste, just as he'd painted the outside of his body. 

He hadn't done it too often since he left Stanford. It wasn't something he'd needed at first, grief over Jess too real, happiness about being back with Dean shoving out the dark. Sam couldn't remember it happening until those six months after Dean died for the last time at the mystery spot, those frantic six months. Those had been... bad. He'd poured himself out, frantic to find a solution. He'd pushed too hard, rougher even than usual with girls in clubs, slamming into the few guys he'd found with a brutality he shouldn't have felt. He'd almost had scars across both of his palms by the time he'd gotten Dean back.

Then there had been Ruby, and a different sort of blood. After that, after he'd somehow gotten to come back to Dean, to try to redeem himself, he'd wanted it worse than ever. All that long year, the apocalypse hanging over their heads, Dean's anger at him morphing at anger at the world that had done this to them, he'd wanted it. He'd taken out the knife so many times, running a finger up the center to flick at the point, a caress. He'd never given in though. There was too much to atone for, too much blood already. 

It was funny. That had been the time that things had been the worst for them, that Sam had been the most afraid, terrified of somehow saying yes to Lucifer. And yet, that had been when he was strongest. He'd felt the darkness pull away a little then, pushed out by whatever light had saved them and put them on that airplane. 

And it had all collapsed only a few years later. He'd held onto it for so long, had pushed away to want for such a long time. He'd held it at bay through having a wall built inside his mind, through having that wall destroyed, even through feeling his sanity crumbling around him each and every day. And then, and then, had come the leviathan. 

And that had been the end of that. Dean had disappeared, and he'd been alone again. It had been in those first few weeks, when he'd been crisscrossing the country, trying to find just one word of Dean, of Cass, of Kevin. He'd been in a crap motel, sheets less than clean and magic fingers to match. He'd taken out the knives to clean them, hands automatic, years of precision letting his mind wander. Then a sharp thump from the room next door had sent his hands skittering a little, still jumpy without Dean there to guard his back. It had only been a tiny cut, just a nick at the pad of a finger.

It was enough. Sam had stared at it, a minute bubble of red across tan skin. Without even thinking about it, he'd grabbed the Mark I from its place on the table, stumbling to the bed and sinking down at the head. He'd taken it slow, dragging just the point across his skin, watching a bright line spring up in response. He hadn't even really felt the pain, mesmerized by the scarlet painting his palm. 

He'd taken his time. Teased himself, painting lines of precome and blood across his cock, feather light touches at his balls. It'd been the first time in a long time he'd let the whispers in, had imagined it was Dean's fingers circling at the bottom of his cock, just a little too rough. He'd even pretended it was Dean's blood, mixing with him, sliding across him. That had been what had set him off, streaks of come painting his heaving chest. 

Maybe it was good that Amelia had come along when she had, pain and pleasure more human than anything Sam manufactured on his own. There hadn't been knives with her, he'd put them away. And maybe, maybe, he'd taken them out sometimes when it had gotten too big. But he'd done that with Jess, so it was ok, bleeding a little behind her back so that when she turned around, he could be what she wanted. 

But now Dean was back.

And the knife was in his dream. With Dean. He walked over to the table, settled the hilt in his hand. It was only then that he noticed Dean's breathing, loud in the room. For a moment, he though Dean was scared, panting with fear. Then he saw the way his brother's boxers were tented up, green eyes almost black with lust. Not scared. Not scared at all.

This was when he woke up. Dean had pulled off the freeway, was headed down some tiny highway towards the glowing sign of some motel. Sam shooed the lingering threads of arousal off him, pushing away the look in Dean's eyes. No, not Dean's. Just a dream, a fantasy twisted around by the darkness he could feel growing again. Nothing more than that. 

***  
The motel room dark when the checked in, no neon glow like the one in his dream. They'd gotten two beds again, and Sam's stomach had twisted a little at what that meant. In St. Louis, with the bleakness still lying between them from the Cassidy farm, words said that should never have been, they'd needed the space. There, Sam had lain awake through the nights, drifting off for a few hours of fitful sleep, longing for Dean's warmth just a few feet away in the other bed. He hadn't realized how used to sleeping with another person he'd become in the few short weeks they'd had in the library. He felt too exposed, too cold, too alone to fall asleep now. 

So these two beds, after Dean's trust, pushed something inside Sam. He needed Dean, needed him more than ever. He could feel the darkness growing, sliding inside him again. He had to have Dean's light.

Sam shook himself again. He'd told Dean there was nothing to worry about. And there wasn't. He was just being stupid. He smiled at Dean. 

“I call first shower!” Dean grunted, clearly more occupied with the pizza flyer that had been left on the formica table top. As Sam shrugged off his shirts and flung them down beside the bed, Dean glanced over his shoulder, eyes widening at the sweat that still shimmered across Sam's chest. So maybe the dream had been kind of intense. As Sam finished stripping, fishing out clean sweats for after his shower, Dean turned back to the pizza flyer, mumbling something.

“Ah what?” Dean's sentence had sounded something like “fucking... all right there...” and then a little more strongly “pepperoni?”

“I asked if you wanted pepperoni or not.” Sam smiled. Trust Dean to be thinking of food. 

“That's fine.” At Dean's grunt of agreement, Sam let the bathroom door swing shut after him, padding across to the floor, turning on the shower to heat up the water. As he waited, he glanced in the mirror. There was – thank goodness – no hint of his earlier sinus problems. In fact, he couldn't even feel the tick at the back of his throat. Something must have cleared it up. 

He stepped into the water, heat sluicing over him. Even the few minutes naked in the room, in the bathroom, had been enough to chill him, bereft of his usual layers. Now, he let the warmth sink into him, slide through his hair and then down his back. Washing quickly, he let himself bask, enjoying the moment alone. 

Then Dean dropped something in the room, sharp gasp cutting through Sam's brown study. Instantly, as though a switch had been flipped, Sam's mind was bouncing back to the dream earlier. He could imagine just that sort of gasp as he cradled the knife, leaning over Dean on the bed. He tried to push out the sensations, willed his dick to calm down. 

Dean flipped on the TV.

Sam felt some of the fight drain out of him. Dean wouldn't hear if he did anything, if he finished the feeling the dream had started. Sam didn't think he could go back in there, eat with Dean, sleep in the same room, and not pull out the knife to slide across his own hand if he didn't get the idea out of his head now. 

So he gave in. 

Slowly, ever so slowly, he crept one hand across his chest, using the other to prop himself up against the wall in front of his head. He whispered one finger around his nipple, about the pinch, when he pulled back, dragging his nail over it instead. His cock jumped at the sensation, and Sam sunk himself into the fantasy the dream had been painting.

He was standing over Dean, tiny Mark I in his hand, watching his brother pant on the bed. 

“What do you want, Dean?” He couldn't help but ask, wanted to hear it from his brother's lips. 

“Fuck, Sam. Just... anything. Anything you want.” Dean looked almost desperate, hips thrusting a little into the air already, wanting to rub his dick against something that wasn't there. Yet he kept his hands at his sides, just as he obviously knew Sam wanted. 

“Really? You're such a little slut you want anything I can give you?” Dean nodded frantically and Sam settled on the bed beside him, ghosting the tip of the knife around Dean's nipple. Dean's moan was choked off, sealed behind closed lips almost the moment it started. Sam smiled, letting just a hint of the darkness twist one side of his mouth into an almost sneer. Dean panted louder. 

“What if I wanted to fuck you, just like this. No touches to your cock, no more touches with this?” Sam gestured with the knife, watching Dean's eyes track it as it slid down his chest. 

“Please Sam. Want the knife. Please.” Sam shivered, darkness leaching out to swirl around them as he slid the blade farther down, so it rested just above the dip of Dean's belly button. Then, with a swift movement, he brought it up to flick a long diagonal line in one of the valleys between Dean's ribs. Dean's moan and the bright crimson welling from his skin seemed like the sweetest thing Sam had ever felt, precome pulsing out from his naked cock. As he glanced down, he could see Dean still pushing up with little jerks of his hips, cock trapped in the cloth of his boxers.

With a quick lick at Dean's side that had his brother moaning again and Sam panting against the metallic taste, he moved down to the edge of Dean's boxers. He slipped the knife underneath the edge of the waistband, lifting the other slide with a finger. As he slid them down Dean's hips, his brother's cock sprang free, flushed and dripping. Sam tossed the boxers across the room and glanced down at the point of Dean's hip bone, sharp against his concave stomach. He placed the point of the knife in the hollow below the bone, pushing just lightly enough not to break the skin, but enough to make an indentation.

“Do you want it, Dean? More? Or do you want me to let you come, touch that pretty dick of yours?” Dean moaned again, fingers twisting in the bedclothes, shaking his head yes to Sam.  
“Got to tell me what you want, Dean. Fucking say it.” Dean's face twisted up as the gasped, the knife pushing a little harder.

“The knife again, Sam. Please, fucking cut.” Dean's muscles were taut, abs in sharp relief as Sam dragged the knife in a sharp circle around his brother's hip bone, drawing on a perfect crimson circle. The moan that escaped him was something just as desperate as Dean's had been the moment before, and he took a moment to lick away the one dribble of blood that had started to run towards the center of Dean's stomach. Then, looking at Dean's flushed cock, he couldn't take it any more. 

He grabbed Dean's hand roughly, yanking it away from the lifeline of the bedclothes. He drew the knife across his brother's palm quickly, a mirror to the lines scored into his own hands. Then, sliding his own fingers through the blood welling up, he jerked Dean once, fingers pressing into the sensitive spot just below the head, smearing Dean's blood across his own cock. 

That was all for his brother, Dean's come spattered across his chest, mixing with the two lines of blood already there, a perfect picture all for Sam.

And with that last picture, Sam himself lost it, shaking a little as he painted the wall of the shower, hand clenching and unclenching against the same tile. He came down in little fluttering aftershocks, wound up too tight and too loose all at once. He licked once at the come on his hand, tasting himself salty. It was almost a shock not to taste the metal he expected, the burn of blood at the back of his throat. 

And then it was broken, Dean hammering on the door with a sharp “pizza's here!” Sam pushed the fantasy away. It was done, and Dean, real Dean, not the one of the darkness or the whispers, was waiting out there for him.

***

Waiting might have been overly optimistic. When Sam made it out of the bathroom, hair dripping a little onto his bare shoulders, Dean was lounging on once of the beds, a string of gooey cheese stretching from his mouth to the edge of a monster piece of pizza.

“Look at this fucking thing, Sammy!” Dean gestured to the pizza box lying next to him. “Its like they finally made something in your size.”

Sam had to admit that Dean was right. It was a huge pizza. Enough that he wouldn't mind eating what he felt like, not feeling like Dean's faster metabolism was missing out on food he deserved. Sam shoved Dean over a little on the bed, not feeling like pulling on a shirt, reaching out and pulling the string of cheese apart. Dean swatted his hand away, almost falling off the bed with the violent motion.

The darkness had been left where it belonged. And if Sam wanted to slide Dean's shirt up, to look for the thin line of blood he knew wasn't there, well, it was alright as long as Dean didn't know. As long as it didn't go further than that. 

***

Sam had been the first to slip into bed, Dean taking his time with his neglected shower. He wasn't anywhere near close to drifting off though when Dean finally came back into the room. He didn't really think he was going to get a good night's sleep anywhere but the impala now. He just didn't know how to adjust to things without Dean. That was why, when Dean pulled up the covers and slid in beside him, bare chested as well, he started a little, glancing over in surprise.

“Dean... wha?” His half formed question made Dean snort a little. 

“Did you get any sleep last week, dude?” Sam's eyes widened even more. Whatever he had been expecting Dean to say, this wasn't it. Obviously his reaction was enough, though, for Dean continued as if he had replied. “Didn't think so. I didn't either. Too cold without you. So scoot.” And that was the end of that. Sam could feel sleep dropping over him, downy and welcoming. They could talk about it in the morning.

***

It certainly wasn't morning when Sam next woke up again. The faint light of the moon was still filtering through the curtains, so different from the usual neons and car lights. For a moment, he couldn't figure out what had woken him, heaviness of sleep and the comfort of Dean being close dragging at his mind. 

Dean being close – too close! That was what pushed him out of the lassitude that threatened to pull him back under. They were curled together in almost the same position they had been the last time they had slept in the same bed, spooned against each other. Only this time, Dean was curled around his back.

And it was Dean's erection pressed into the cleft of Sam's ass, rocking with little hesitant motions.

“Dean?” Sam whispered, hoping against hope that his brother was awake. No one answered him, only the soft huff of Dean's breath across his neck and the press of Dean, hot against him. Sam couldn't help it. He pushed back just a little, feeling Dean slot into place against him. This was so wrong.

And yet... Dean pushed forward a little more, breath panting a little against Sam's throat. It was so much what he wanted. Maybe... maybe he could just let Dean have this moment, dream about some busty girl, while Sam imagined that his brother was dreaming about him. Maybe it would be enough. Dean's hips worked a little faster, pushing more insistently at Sam. Sam rocked back a little more, feeling the slide of Dean's cock even through the layers of both of their sweats. His brother was so hot against him, fit so perfectly. 

Then, just as Sam started to feel like he was willing to do this, to settle into a rhythm pushing back against Dean's needy cock, he felt his brother tense up, breathing stuttering even in sleep. Then, just like he'd imagined it, he could feel just a hint of dampness, Dean painting the inside of his sweats with come, just a little seeping through to Sam. 

Sam mentally shook himself. He should ease his way away from Dean, get up and clean up his own sweats the little they would need. Dean was going to be embarrassed enough in the morning without somehow finding out that he'd not only come in his own sweats, he'd also been pressed up close enough against Sam that his spunk had found its way onto his brother.

But Sam didn't want to. This was perfect, so perfect. It was better even than the library, than the moments curled up watching movies or lying side by side on the bed in Dean's room, laughing at something stupid Sam had read in the library. 

In the darkness, with the memory of Dean's cock against his ass and the phantom memory of Dean's blood painted on his lips, things were finally perfect.


	7. From my Waking to my Sleeping (Episode 8.16)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The next morning is a lazy one.

The first thing Sam noticed when he woke up was that he felt a lot more rested than he had in a long, long time. He was snuggled inside some sort of cocoon, finally warm for the first time since before Lucifer had risen, before Ruby. As Sam slowly grew more and more awake, dragging himself out of the floating feeling that was trying to keep hold of him, he realized what had happened. He and Dean must have shifted during the night. Now he was pressed up against Dean's back, arm flung over his brother's side. Even worse, his hand was splayed wide on Dean's stomach, pulling him possessively back against Sam. His face was nestled up in Dean's neck, nose nudging at the soft hairs just above the nape. 

It was wonderful.

For a moment, Sam contemplated just staying there, hugging Dean close and never letting go. They could hang, suspended as motes of light, in the dimness of the room, away from the world outside. Witches, demons, even angels – it felt like nothing could touch them as long as they stayed right there. 

Sam remembered when he was younger, just after the Christmas when he'd found out about what their father really did. He'd been scared, a little too proud to show it. Sam had created little rules about the monsters he hadn't started to learn enough about. Late at night, curled up against Dean in a too hard bed, he'd pretended that as long as they were under the covers, were touching, nothing could happen to them, no harm could come. 

He felt like that now. 

Then, of course, the world came crashing back to him. Dean was going to freak out if he found out Sam was awake like this. The only thing Sam could do was try to ease his arm out from underneath Dean, slowly pull away from his brother and get up. He started to do just that. 

He got as far as pulling his face away from the warmth of Dean's neck, slowly sliding his hand across Dean's stomach to pull it away. Then Dean whimpered a little. Sam stopped, breath caught, hoping his brother wasn't about to wake up. But instead of sitting up, yelling at Sam, or some other of the various situations flashing in front of Sam, Dean just hugged out a little breath. 

“Sammy...” It was almost a moan. Dean's arms came up to pull Sam's hand back across his side, snuggling back into Sam's body. His eyes were still clamped shut, no hint that he was awake at all. He snuffled a little, ducking his head and curling into himself a little more. Sam sighed into the back of Dean's neck. So he was just going to have to stay here, pressed up against Dean, until Dean got up on his own and freaked out in private. What a hardship.

Except it really wasn't. 

***

They'd finally made it back to the library the next day, stumbling into their bedrooms to dump dirty clothes across the floor. The next few days had been filled with too much sleep, beers, and an attempt to find whatever they could in the library about the tablets.

Of course there was nothing. Sam hadn't really expected there to be anything. The tablets were some sort of cosmic secret. Even Cas had been surprised about them. Thinking of Cas made him wince. He didn't really want to believe that the angel was just ignoring Dean, but that was certainly what it looked like. Even when Dean had flat out screamed the angel's name, note of desperation glaringly clear to Sam, there hadn't been any answer. 

But believing that Cas was ignoring them was better than the alternative. The angel had looked decidedly odd the last time they'd seen him. Sam wasn't even letting himself think about what it meant if Cas wasn't ignoring them, if he simply couldn't answer. 

There was, however, one upside to worrying over Cas. Sam had felt too tied up, tired and anxious, to even think about the whispers from the past few weeks. He had even put the lazy morning with Dean out of his mind, heart aching at the effort. By the third day, he wondered if he'd finally gotten over things, that he simply didn't need those fantasies anymore. 

He should have known that was too good to be true. The evening of the third day, Dean pulled out a case of beer, slamming it onto the work table with a rattle. 

“Cas isn't answering, and this research is going fucking nowhere. I have beer.” He smiled down at Sam, and Sam could feel his heartbeat speed up. This wasn't a “you're by little brother, and I need someone to get drunk with,” smile. This was the sort of look he'd seen Dean toss around in bars, with witnesses. It was a look that said there was something more fun than just a drink waiting. Then Dean slumped into the chair next to Sam.

“Fuck, man, how can you sit here all day?” Dean was bouncing up again, grabbing the beers and flouncing over to the doorway to their bedrooms. He turned a few steps into the hall and looked back at where Sam was sitting, frozen. “Well, are you just going to sit there?” And Sam couldn't stop the way his dick hardened a little at those words. Fuck, he was so screwed.

Dean had the beers set down next to his bed by the time Sam got inside Dean's bedroom, twirling a dvd between his fingertips. Sam could feel a rush of relief. Just a normal night, watching something stupid that Dean picked up from a gas station and drinking a little too much. He must be loosing it, imagining things like Dean's earlier tone. 

It was after the first three beers each that Sam realized they'd slumped together on the bed. Dean's head was pillowed against his shoulder, a heavy weight. Maybe it was the alcohol, maybe he just had finally snapped. Whatever it was, Sam gave in. For the first time ever, he listened to the little voice at the back of his head telling him just to bend down, nuzzle into the spiky hair at the top of Dean's head.

Dean didn't move, except to relax further against Sam's side. Sam could feel the gel from Dean's hair crunch a little under his cheek. The whispers were more like screams now. They were begging him to just slide his arm around Dean's shoulders, tug him closer. Sam ignored them. Maybe Dean was alright with Sam using him as a headrest, but that didn't mean he would be ok with being cuddled. 

And so Sam did nothing more. And they fell asleep that way. 

***  
The next morning Sam wondered if it had been a dream. He and Dean were curled up at different sides of Dean's bed, just as they usually were. The whispers weren't any stronger than they usually were. That is, they weren't any stronger until Sam got into the shower. Then the memory of Dean's back pressed against his chest came back in full force. His brother had been a solid mass, somehow more real when awake than in all the half asleep moments lately. 

Sam's mind swiftly put together those sensations. It was so much worse now, now that he knew how Dean's ass felt pressed against his cock, now that he could imagine Dean's weight against him. He could imagine pulling that chest against his own bare one, taking one hand and twisting at Dean's nipples until his brother squirmed in pleasure-pain. He could thing about how it would feel to press into that ass, pulling Dean down on top of him with almost too little prep. 

Sam wrapped long fingers around his dick, tugging slowly at it as the warm water swept over him. He could picture what he would have done last night, if he had had just a little less willpower. Reach one hand around Dean where he had pressed up against Sam. Drag it down his stomach to rub across Dean's dick, get him interested. Then he'd flip them over, pressing Dean's face into the mattress as he fisted Dean's cock slowly through his jeans. He'd thrust up against Dean's ass, just so Dean could feel his heat through the layers of cloth. 

Sam was getting closer, teasing his fingers across the head of his cock, while the other arm supported him against the shower wall. He thrust a little into his fist, imagining it was Dean's ass he was fucking up against. Fuck, that would be so perfect. 

“Sam? I fucking can't believe...” Dean's voice trailed off as he obviously realized what Sam was doing. For his part, Sam was desperately trying not to come at the sound of Dean's voice, at the fact that Dean was just standing there, looking at him. Fuck, he knew this communal shower thing was going to bite them in the ass sooner or later. Why couldn't the builders of this place have made individual shower stalls. But fuck Dean was still standing there, mouth open a little, staring at Sam. 

And Sam still had his hand wrapped around his cock, which, if anything, had gotten even harder. Dean's eyes dropped down, then quickly flicked up. Sam couldn't stop his hand from squeezing convulsively as Dean's tongue flicked out, moistening Dean's lips where he'd gone momentarily speechless. Sam gave a little gasp at the added pressure and the sound seemed to reverberate in the tile room.

“Sorry man. Though it is good to know that you're doing something about it. You're so fucking uptight sometimes...” Dean sounded like he was going to keep talking, but Sam suddenly found his voice again. 

“Dean!” and maybe he sounded a little higher pitched than usual, but there wasn't really anything he could do about it. 

“Yeah, sorry man. Leaving now.” And Dean backed out of the room, hands raised apologetically. Sam sighed a little in relief. His cock throbbed at him insistently, just as hard as when Dean had glanced at it. And fuck, that look in Dean's eyes. If Sam let himself, he could pretend the look meant what it would if the Dean he liked to imagine had given it to him. 

So he let himself. He fucked his fist harder, pushing the Dean in his mind down into the mattress. He whispered in that Dean's ear, all about how he was going to fuck his ass raw for screwing up Sam's shower. He was going to slam into it so hard that Dean wouldn't want to sit down, so hard that Dean could fucking feel Sam throughout his entire body. 

***  
Later, when Dean said that Sam was hiding something, all Sam could think about was the shower. Of course he was fucking hiding something. He was hiding the fact he'd been jerking off to his brother when his brother walked into the shower. He was hiding the fact that the little pinprick of red against Dean's skin where his brother had cut himself shaving was making Sam swell inside his jeans. He was hiding the fact that he wanted to press Dean flat against the table, rip open that bathrobe, and slide his own belt out from his pants. He wanted to hear the leather whistle through the air, see the red lines across Dean's ass. He wanted to feel the heat of those stripes against his palm as he stroked down over it before he fisted his brother's cock.

So yeah, he was hiding things. 

***  
Sam wasn't sure what made him pause before going in to Dean's room. Maybe it was how the door was closed just a few inches more than usual. Maybe it was just how tired he felt. They had driven straight back to the library after Prometheus's pyre had gone out, not stopping for a rest. Dean had seemed to need the safety of what was quickly starting to feel like home just as much as Sam did. They'd ducked in in a whirlwind of activity, throwing duffels down in the work room, quick showers and even quicker moments at the sink. Sam had gone to get some clean clothes from his room, then made his way to Dean's, thinking of nothing more than the soft bed and the heat of his brother next to him. 

“Damn it man, where are you?” Sam could hear the desperate rasp of Dean's voice even outside of the room. The rasp only reserved for Cas. He could feel a rush of white hot anger at the angel, strange for its familiarity. He didn't remember feeling this way since a few years before, since when they first found out Cas had been working with Crowley. Then, just like now, Sam had felt like there was nothing he'd like more than to put the angel's perfect face through a wall. There had never been anyone but Sam who could put that tone of desperation in Dean's voice, and Sam had never done it this unthinkingly. 

Except for Stanford, part of his brain whispered at him. That, though, was something he could squash away quickly. He'd known what he was doing then, just though that it'd be better for Dean. Better with him far away, without the darkness painting Sam's dreams, painting everything around him. 

He sucked in a deep breath. Well, that hadn't really worked. The darkness was there, no matter what he did. And the dreams and... He pushed it all away as he pushed open the door to the room.

Dean was in the middle of changing, and Sam sucked in another quick breath. His brother was stretched out in front of him, shirt tangled around his head and shoulders. As Sam watched, Dean struggled a little to get the shirt off. At first Sam was so caught up in the shift and flex of his brother's back that he didn't notice the trouble Dean was having. When he did, though, he let out a little huff of a laugh. Dean had managed to get himself so tangled up in his shirt that he was now tugging at where it was stuck over his head with hands almost equally as constricted.

“Need some help there?” The laugh, the nerves, everything from the past few days finally bubbled out of him in a long drawn out guffaw. Dean made an annoyed grunt, then mumbled something into the fabric of the shirt. Sam figured that would have to do as a yes. 

He slowly detangled first one arm and the other, being careful to move normally, not letting his hands caress across Dean's skin the way they wanted to. But when he got to Dean's face, he couldn't help but let one hand skim briefly across his brother's hair, petting. Then, finally, he'd gotten Dean out of his shirt. 

“You know, I think you were supposed to learn how to take off your own clothes a few years ago.” Dean glowed at him, then busied himself with getting out a clean t-shirt. A muffled “fuck you,” came from where Dean was shucking off his pants with significantly less trouble. Then, with boxers in place and t-shirt safely over his head, Dean shuffled over to the edge of the bed and flopped down, pulling the covers over top of himself.

Sam took this as the sign that it was bedtime and slipped under the covers on his side. Dean was lying face up, staring at the ceiling, little of the humor of the past moment in his eyes. Sam pushed himself up on his elbow, remembering what he had overheard earlier. Things were going wrong, and even Cas wasn't there when Dean needed him. Sam started to say something. He wasn't really sure what, but as soon as he'd gotten his mouth open Dean gave him a glare that clearly said this was something they weren't talking about right now. Sam could feel himself slump a little.

But the hurt in Dean's eyes was too strong. Sam couldn't help reaching over and putting one hand on Dean's shoulder, from whispering into the darkness that fell suddenly as Dean slapped the light switch next to him.

“Hey, I'm here. We can get through this. I promise.” And he could feel Dean push a little closer to him. He slid his hand across Dean's chest to wrap around his brother's body. Any minute he was sure Dean was going to shrug him off, say something about chick flick moments. But seconds flicked past into minutes and Sam could hear nothing except Dean's slow breathing. He snuck a glance up to Dean's face.

His brother was asleep, Sam's arm slung across his chest, Sam closer than they'd ever fallen asleep together sober. Closer than Dean had ever let him get on a normal day. And Dean was asleep, snuggled into him. Finally.


	8. A little Harmless Dreaming (Episode 8.17)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam and Dean work out what happened with Cas and Meg. Steps are taken. Title is from _Where I'm Calling From: new and selected stories_ by Raymond Carver "It's a place where a little harmless dreaming and then some sleepy, early-morning talk has led me into considerations of death and annihilation.”

It was the pitch black of night a few hours before dawn when they pulled up outside a dimly lit motel. The weak neon sign proclaiming “Starlight Inn – Office open 24 hours,” flickered a little, while the vacancy sign glowed strong against its black backdrop. Sam unfolded himself stiffly from the passenger side, grabbing his duffel. For a minute there he had thought that Dean wouldn't stop – that he was just going to keep driving all the way back to the library. Sam had almost wanted him to, to drive away from that place, from everything that he and Meg had talked about.

He'd known they'd have to stop sometime though, that he'd have to listen to all the thoughts whispering through his mind sooner or later. There was nothing for it but to go collapse onto a bed inside some anonymous motel and hope that Dean's heat close by him was enough to drive away Meg's words. 

Dean had come back out of the office, was starting to stare a little at Sam. Sam realized that he had slumped over against one of the Impala's back doors, clutching his and Dean's duffels a little too tightly. He gave a quick smile and made his way over to Dean, limping a little. 

“You ok man?” Sam choked back the automatic 'I'm fine' that hovered on the edge of his tongue. He really wasn't fine. But in comparison to other days lately... well this was ok. 

“Its fine, Dean. Nothing worse than usual.” And Dean was just going to have believe that, because Sam wasn't up for more discussion on this particular topic tonight. Dean just smiled a little back, a twisted half smile that was strange on his usually expressive face. 

Dean led the way over to the room, yanking open the door to reveal a gigantic king sized bed, a tiny table and two beaten up chairs. It was all Sam could do to stumble over to the edge of the bed and sink down onto it. 

“Woah, tiger, be careful.” Dean's rebuke was soft as Sam yanked viciously at his shoelaces. Sam forced his fingers to stop trembling as he stripped down to his boxers, for once not really paying attention to the fact that Dean was doing the same right across the bed from him. Once he'd finally gotten off everything, he hunted futilely in his bag for the toothpaste.

“Looking for this?” Dean was smiling for real now, standing in the doorframe of the bathroom, one arm raised above his head to support himself, dangling the toothpaste in his other hand. Sam huffed irritatedly at Dean, but couldn't muster up the energy to get really annoyed. Instead, he crowded in behind where Dean had started to clean up in front of the mirror. 

**

The bed was chilly when he slumped down against the headboard. Sam would have been happy to just go to sleep, to leave the thoughts of the day behind them in the flash of Crowley's blade against Meg's ribs, but Dean – for once – seemed to want to talk. At least, that was what Sam was betting on, Dean propped stiffly against the bed next to him. 

“So, something on your mind?” Sam had given up wishing that Dean would just out and say what was on his mind. Some sort of prompting didn't hurt that much and made it so much easier for Dean to tell what was going on.

“What did you and Meg talk about?” Sam started a little. That wasn't what he was expecting Dean to ask. Maybe about Cas, maybe about why Sam was so tired. But not about Meg. It took him a moment to find the right words.

“Amelia, actually. And what happened last year.” Dean grimaced a little. When he spoke again, his voice had the edge of tightness that Sam remembered from the year with Ruby, the sound that Dean always got when talking about Amelia.

“You tell her all about how wonderful it was, finally being done with everything.?” And there was a hint of bitterness. “You tell her all about how perfect that girl was?” Sam felt a hot flash across the back of his neck. How dare Dean sound like that when he knew nothing, nothing, about why Amelia was important. He hadn't even asked. 

“Yeah, Dean, I freaking did.” Dean snorted a little and Sam's stomach twisted. “Amelia fucking showed me that I, that we, can have something more than this. That's the end of the tunnel. And she's not at the end of it for me, but she sure opened the door. Fuck, Dean, you weren't there. Of course it wasn't perfect.” And Sam didn't really care that that was too much, tugging at the things whispering in his mind that he couldn't say. 

Couldn't say that Meg was wrong. That Amelia wasn't Sam's unicorn, not by a long shot. She was a good substitute, but one he hadn't even wanted to fight for. She was just a second choice, a bit of broken glass that almost fit into his own jagged edges. Sam was so caught up in his own anger, annoyance at Dean for never understanding this, for not feeling what Sam tried never to think about but couldn't get off his mind that he missed the way Dean's face crumpled a little after his words. 

“Sammy...” Dean sounded broken, one hand twitching on the covers as if to reach out to Sam. “I... I know. Look, I'm... Its just, Cas was lying this whole time, almost tried to kill me. And fuck, I know you think things can end. I just don't see it.” But this time, Sam could see the something else hovering at the edges of Dean's words, glimmering in the darkness. 

“I call bullshit. There's something else to this. You've gone along, believed me, before this. Even when you didn't think we could stop the apocalypse, you went along with me because I believed. Something else is bothering you.” Dean's nose wrinkled up at Sam in an unmistakable grimace of disgust.

“Sam, do we really have to talk about this now? I'm fucking exhausted, and I know you are.” Even Sam could hear the note of pleading in Dean's voice, tugging at his heart even as he tried to ignore it just this once. 

“No. No. We talk about this now. This honesty thing works both ways.” And the steel flooding across Sam's spine made him sit up a little more on the bed, glare down at Dean. There was no way that Dean was getting out of this conversation, emotionally stunted as he was. 

“Fuck Sam. I don't want to talk about this.” Sam just glared in response. “Look, you found Amelia. Without me. What if this all ends, if we finally win, and you just leave. You've got a light and I don't. I can't do this, do anything without you. 

Sam slumped down again, the strength rushing out of him. Dean had turned a little away on the bed, busying himself with the knife he had slipped under his pillow earlier. Fuck. This was what Dean was worried about. And Sam didn't know how to explain. 

There was no way in the world he was leaving Dean. That he knew now. The whispers this year had made sure of that. Maybe years ago, when they weren't so strong, when his stomach didn't twist up when the light hit Dean's hair the right way. Maybe when his heart didn't beat faster when Dean accidentally brushed his shoulder. Maybe when they didn't spend each night sleeping in the same bed. Maybe then he could have pushed his thoughts to the back of his mind, lost his desire for Dean in a haze of blood and spunk every few months. 

Not now. Now he had Dean, had him more than ever before. There was no way he was giving this up, even if it was so much less than what he dreamed about. And even though he was never going to get that, he couldn't leave. Part of Dean was better than none. 

“Look, Dean. You're just going to have to trust me. I trust you ever single day, just this once, trust me. There is no way in hell that I'm leaving you now. If we're both alive when this is done – when we're both alive – we're in this together.” Dean gave a little shrug in response, half an assent to what Sam was trying to tell him. 

“Sam, Sammy, I know you won't leave me. I'm just gettin' less and less sure about that normal thing.” It was Sam's turn to give a shrug. Then, sliding down the sheets, he burrowed a little into the bedding. Dean was above him now, the pale light from the neon lights through the window flattening out his face, making him look years younger. Sam was suddenly reminded of the first few years after he had left Stanford, how happy hunting had made Dean, had made him. What had happened? When had they lost their faith? He gave a little shiver and Dean sighed long in response.

Dean curled up on his side of the bed and Sam sighed again. The one time that he desperately needed reassurance that Dean was with him, was his, and of course he was going to have to wait until Dean was asleep to get it. 

“Fuck this.” Dean's voice was sharp against the night air. Sam made a questioning lilt, slightly muffled by the comforter he had pulled up tight against his chin. “We both know how this is going to end up.” Now Sam was even more confused. Was Dean still talking about their earlier conversation?

“Dean, can we just try to sleep?” He really didn't think it was too much to ask at three in the morning. 

“Fucking hell, Sam. We both know neither of us is really going to sleep well like this.” And with that, Dean was rolling over to the middle of the bed, back to Sam, stretched out. Sam just stared at him. He knew what he wanted Dean to be saying, what the whispers kept insisting Dean had to mean. But it wasn't possible. It really wasn't. 

“Well, are you coming over here?” Dean's voice drifted across to Sam, the edge of tight nerves palpable. Sam could feel his heart hiccup at those words. Dean did mean it. Fuck yes, Dean meant it. He needed Sam. 

Sam scooted over into the space behind Dean, giving his brother enough time to back out. Then, when Dean stayed silent, he plastered himself against Dean's back. Reaching slowly across, he placed trembling fingers on Dean's waist. Dean didn't react except to press himself into a slightly more comfortable place against Sam. 

Sam could feel his heart beating harder than it had ever had when he was with someone in a bed, worked up just from curling himself around Dean. Yet for once, it wasn't some fantasy, some moment in the depths of his dream. He slid his arm farther down Dean's waist. Dean made a sort of half sigh into him, reaching his own hand down to catch Sam's and pull it tighter across him. 

“Dean...” Sam breathed, not sure what was going on. This couldn't mean the same thing for Dean as it meant for him. But what, then, was Dean thinking? 

“Shut up and sleep, Sam.” And that was that. Sam pressed his face against the back of Dean's neck and breathed in. It didn't really matter right now why Dean was doing this. He could smell the gunpowder, hair gel, cotton smell at the back of Dean's neck. That was all that mattered. He had Dean in his arms and he could sleep. They would worry about it later. Now, he could sleep.


	9. Farther than the Loudest Call (Episode 8.18)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the wake of their moment together in the motel bed, Sam is having trouble holding things together. Title is from Earl Wilson: "Ever notice that the whisper of temptation can be heard farther than the loudest call to duty."

The next motel had dark wood panelling and an even darker carpet that might have been ruby red at one point long in its past. Now it was a sort of rusty, muddy brown, dirt and ash from countless cigarettes ground into it by the heels of countless boots and spiked women's stilettos. Sam flopped flat on the huge gold coverlet the moment he made it to the door, feet only just hanging off the end. He could feel the insides of his bones humming and jittering at him, had felt them the entire day.

It was all Dean's fault. Dean had been the one to get his hopes up, to pull Sam close in the dark of the night, to actually talk about the problems they were having. Then, the entire day afterward, he had driven to their next hunt, silent about the dreams that danced through Sam's mind. Waking up had been bad, plastered around Dean. Worse had been when Sam realized that sometime during the night, his hand had snuck up underneath Dean's shirt and was teasing at the sharp curves of Dean's abs. It was Dean's unwillingness to talk about it, though, that had set his teeth on edge and his blood aching.

“Up and at 'em, Sammy boy!” Dean's voice sounded too cheerful as he emerged from the tiny bathroom. He'd changed out of the old shirt he'd been wearing to drive and was stalking, naked from the waist up, to his bag. Sam felt his mouth flood with saliva as, unbidden, an image of him sucking a dark bruise at the corner of one of Dean's pecs flashed before him. He muffled his face in the comforter to stop the gasp that escaped him as Dean stretched up to pull on a dark undershirt. Shrugging on an overshirt and jacket, Dean made a face at him.

“What's up with you?” Sam gave a bit of a shrug against the mattress. There really wasn't any way for him to explain what the problem was. 

“Just tired.” Dean gave him a look. “Really, Dean. I just need some time to think and read crap on the computer. You go have fun.” That was the light glaring in the back of Dean's eyes. But to Sam's surprise, Dean's face softened a little.

“You ok with that? I mean, if you just want to hang here...” Dean trailed off, looking hopeful that Sam was going to spring up and declare his new and heretofore unknown desire to bar hop in grimy small town bars. Sam shook his head and Dean signed. 

“I'll just be gone a few hours, I promise. Early start tomorrow and all that.” And with that said, Dean was off through the door, throwing a halfhearted smile back to Sam. 

The moment the door banged shut behind Dean, Sam flipped over on the mattress. His cock, which had been half hard most of the day, was starting to get more insistent. It had been Dean's skin, the long lines of scars stretching across it, that had pushed Sam from the pleasantly aroused to the needy side of things. He could just see the way those scars would look stretched out underneath him on a bed. 

Sam slowly slid the zipper of his pants down, being careful not to brush his cock. Dean was gone for a few hours and it was a perfect chance to get rid of the hum. It was getting worse, tugging darkly at him, making him want to claim and mark, to bite at Dean's neck in the murk of the night when they were curled around each other in the bed. He eased his pants off. Then, sliding his hands back up his sides in whispering trails, he pulled slowly at his shirt. Last to go were his boxers.

Sam could feel the air blowing from the too old heater on his bare skin as he stretched out across the bed. Maybe, just maybe, if it was Dean stretched out here, he would feel it too. Sam's cock twitched, filling completely, as he imagined stretching Dean out across the bed, arms above his head. At first, Sam could see himself holding Dean's hands down, crossed, to stretch his brother's body to the fullest. 

Handcuffs. That was what he would do. He'd hook the bracelet around the spokes of the bed frame, clasp Dean's hands in them. No fuzzy things either. He knew just the one's he'd use – the ones that were almost impossible to pick. He could see Dean on the bed behind his closed eyelids. His brother writhed against the metal links holding him in place, splaying his legs open for Sam.

“Such a fucking slut.” Sam breathed under his breath as he pinched roughly at one of his nipples. The tingle that ran through him as he trailed a fingernail across his chest to flick at the other pale pink point reached almost down to his toes. He could see Dean, legs spread wide and cock jutting up against his belly, still struggling a little against the cuffs. Then, just like his dreams, he could see himself picking up the little knife, finding the spot on Dean's side where the poltergeist had gotten him when Dean was 18. There was a jagged scar there from a flying shard of glass. Sam saw himself reaching down, dragging the knife across the side of the wound to make a perfect line in Dean's pale flesh. Dean trembled on the bed, making a whimper somewhere between pain and arousal.

Sam reached down now, trailing one finger across where his cock was already leaking against his stomach. Then, slowly, he dragged the same finger down the underside of his cock, to stroke lightly across his balls. If Dean were there, really there, he would have coated his fingers in the sticky blood seeping from Dean's side, painted his dick in the red of his brother. As it was, Sam took a moment to reach into the pile of his clothes and pull out the short Mark I. He rolled back to lie in the center of the bed, making sure to get one of his shirts underneath him. He wasn't planning to cut that much, but a fresh blood stain would certainly get Dean's attention.

He drew the knife sharply in a line between to of his ribs, gasping at the pain. The Dean in his head arched up into the identical slice Sam drew across his ribs. Dipping his fingers down, Sam painted them in his own blood. It was warm against them and for a moment, just a moment, Sam could really believe it was Dean's blood sliding wetly across his palm. He reached down to stroke at his cock again, the blood adding just the right mixture of slick and sticky.

“Fuck, Dean,” he breathed. He could see Dean panting against the two cuts leaking a little in his side. Sam would reach down, fondle his brother's balls. He could feel Dean arching up as Sam pressed into the spot right behind them, pleasure lancing through Dean as pain radiated out from the thin scratches in his skin. Sam tugged at his own cock, for a moment uncoordinated by the arousal filling his mouth and trembling through his legs.

He could feel the muscles just behind his knees starting to twitch, rocked his legs out a little wider to give himself more room. He was stroking hard and fast at his cock now, thumb flicking over the sensitive head with each stroke. He pressed one finger into the depths of Dean's ass, saw his brother arch up and come in the depths of his mind as he gave a last tug at his own dick.

Then Sam, too, was coming, the hot rush across his chest and over his fist. He stroked at the base of his dick as he came down, trembling a little.

He'd given up. There was no way he could push this thing with Dean away now. Maybe, before, he was able to live on memories, a knife, and hours alone it the perfect bathroom of a house. Not any more. No, now he given in, needed Dean against him in the night too much, needed those fresh moments. Maybe he still had to jerk off with a knife alone, but at least it was better. Just a little better. It had been weeks this time from the last time he'd felt the hum of the knife in his bones. Before, with Amelia, it had only ever been days.

***

Dean had insisted they not talk about what had happened with Cas, with Meg, that night, the entire time they'd been dealing with that misguided hunter's academy. Sam had almost resigned himself to curling up alone on the his side of the bed, cold until Dean wormed his way across sometime in the night. He'd almost decided it was alright, it was something he could live with, this fatalism that Dean had given in to.

But then he'd realized that it wasn't fatalism. 

It was despair. After all they'd been through, Dean had given up. And there wasn't any way Sam could see to fix it.

They had driven to the nearest motel they could find after leaving the kids, not even trying to make it back to the library that night. Sam had rushed in, calling first shower while Dean had still been unloading the car. He'd needed a moment to think, to process what Dean had been thinking this whole time.

He had thought. He wasn't sure he'd really processed, but that was to be expected when trying to work Dean out. Now, Sam was curled under the covers, face buried in the pillow on the left of the king sized bed. 

The door to the bathroom opened in a rush of steam, Dean stepping out in only his boxers, toweling his hair off. He tossed the towel haphazardly back into small room behind him, frowning slightly down at Sam. 

“You ok, little brother? That's a whole lot you're sleeping lately.” Sam almost grimaced. He didn't think Dean wanted to hear that he'd been pushing them to go to sleep earlier just so that he could touch his brother more each night. Instead, he cast about for a plausible reason that wouldn't have Dean jumping down his throat about being sick.

“Lots of early starts. And I want to get back to the library to do some research.” Dean nodded in response, uncharacteristically letting the matter lapse. He climbed in next to Sam, shivering a little at the cool sheets. Then, rolling so his back was towards Sam, he reached up and flicked off the remaining bedside light. 

“'Night then, I guess.” And he signed a little. Sam could see his back rising in little puffs as Dean breathed, not deep enough to even mimic sleep. There was no way that they were getting to sleep any time soon, not this early, with this much adrenaline after a hunt. Yet all he wanted to do was pull Dean into his arms for the inevitable crash, cradle his brother away from the world. 

“Dean...” Sam breathed before he could stop himself. He bit off the next words though, not willing to beg for what he so desperately wanted. Dean's breath hitched for a moment, a stutter step in the rise and fall of his shoulders. 

“Sammy?” He sounded confused, with just the right edge that Sam was sure he was putting on the tone. Dean was just giving him an easy way out. Then, suddenly, for the first time ever, Sam found he didn't care. He needed this – they needed this – and there was no way he was going to be scared out of it.

“Dean, I...” but then the spurt of courage leached out of his bones. “just... don't make me say it. Please.” Dean sighed, the sound magnified in the darkness. For a moment, Sam thought Dean was going to make him ask for it, make Sam give up to him the same desperation that Dean had given just a few days before. But then, his shoulders relaxing as though the tension was draining out of him, Dean rolled closer to the center of the bed, finding the spot that stretched him out for Sam. 

Dean was warm when Sam curved his body about his brother. He slid one hand across Dean's waist with far less hesitation than the last time they put themselves together like this. It was like pieces of a puzzle. The first time you put it together, it was a little stiff, just cut out and sent from the factory. Now, though, they slid together a little more easily. Maybe not easy, not yet, but things weren't quite as bad as before. Dean sighed again. This time, though, Sam could tell that his brother was relaxing, sinking deeper into his embrace. Dean tugged Sam's arm a little closer to him and Sam let out a huff of breath.

“Sammy?”

“Yeah, Dean?”

“Shut up and go to sleep.”

***

It was still dark in the room when Sam woke up. For a moment, he wasn't sure what had woken him, in the stillness of the moment just after regaining consciousness. Then, he started. Yet again he was pressed up tight to Dean, clutching his brother to him. Hard against Dean's ass. Hips trying to rock forward.

Wasn't this sort of thing supposed to get a bit better once you grew up?

Hadn't it gotten better? It had. But now, with the perfect curve of Dean's ass cradling his dick and the warmth of Dean's back against his chest, it was like he couldn't help it. He could feel desire rushing through him, burning up against his sides to flood into his mouth, hips aching to rock forward just a little bit. His hand clenched convulsively against Dean's stomach, brushing a little lower as he forced it to relax.

Sam almost let out a surprised whimper, swallowing it at the last moment. As his hand unclenched, it had swept across Dean's stomach, swept lower to rest lightly on something that was definitely not Dean's abs. He couldn't help stroking convulsively over the hardness he had felt, sweeping his hand over Dean's dick. 

Sam suppressed another moan, his cock pulsing precome where it was nestled in the cleft of Dean's ass. Fuck, Dean was hard. Hard with Sam pressed up against him, hard with Sam's hand on his stomach, fitted into Sam like the stones of a wall against the night. All he wanted to do was rock into Dean, shift his hand tighter around Dean's cock. Dean whined a little deep in his throat and Sam forced himself to pause, to hold himself perfectly still. He raised his head cautiously up from where it was buried in the short hairs at the back of Dean's neck. 

Dean still had his eyes clamped tightly shut, breathing seeming sleepy even in its slight irregularity. Sam lowered his head back to where it had been before, breathing in the dark smell of Dean's sweat. His brother was still asleep. 

“Dean?” he whispered, lifting his hand just off Dean's cock in case Dean woke up. Nothing happened. Sam lowered his hand back down, breathing a sigh of relief. This time, his thumb clutched at Dean's hip, his fingers brushed forward to lightly touch Dean's cock. It was hot against their tips, so hot Sam couldn't imagine what it would be really like to stroke it, to press at Dean's balls, to work his way inside. Even after all the fantasies, Sam trembled a little, mind almost incoherent at the fact he was really touching Dean's dick.

Fuck, he thought to himself. I should not be doing this. Should not. Dean isn't even awake. And he certainly wouldn't think this was a good idea if he was. 

But then, the whispering thoughts at the back of his mind caught up. Dean was hard, Sam was hard. Dean would never know. He could just have this, this short moment, and Dean would still be there. He could have this here and maybe he wouldn't need the knife, wouldn't spend his days next to Dean in the car, imagining carving dark lines into Dean's sides, lapping at the blood. Maybe he could just have this. 

And the whispers won. As they had been doing more and more often. He pushed up against Dean's ass, pressed his fingers a little harder against Dean's cock. The friction was almost too much as he rocked forward, dick sliding in the slick he had already painted inside his boxers. He was so close, so close just from looking at Dean's neck, from feeling his dick, from imagining sucking a dark bruise on the perfect pale skin of Dean's throat. With one last pump, Sam could feel himself shivering and shaking his way though his orgasm. He forced himself not to clutch at Dean's hip, not to leave marks that would be hard to explain. 

In the panting wake of his orgasm, Sam pressed his nose even deeper into Dean's neck. Dean had started to breath harder as Sam had rocked himself. Now he was almost panting as well, hips jerking a little against where Sam's fingers still rested against Dean's dick. Dean snuffled a little into the pillow, rubbing himself against the mattress, then shifting back a little against Sam's spent cock. Then, with a little cry deep in his throat, Dean pulsed against Sam's fingers.

It was then, with his brother's come slicking a little against his hand as he moved it back up to Dean's stomach, that Sam finally fell completely asleep. There was a cocoon of warmth about him and he finally felt home.


	10. Wiser than Waking (Episode 8.19)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam wakes up the next morning and realizes what he's done. The title is from a quote from Black Elk: "Sometimes dreams are wiser than waking."

Sam was worried the next morning, more worried than he'd ever been waking up next to Dean. What if his brother had woken up. What if Dean knew? What if Dean had decided he was a freak, had finally given up on him. Dean had given him so many chances. In the light of day, Sam wasn't sure this merited another one. He'd... he didn't want to think about it, let his mind form what had really happened. 

But Dean said nothing, only worried about Kevin after the kid's frantic call. And that was something Sam could finally get on board with, ignoring what what building between them in the face of the most recent disaster.

By the time they'd gotten to the boat, found Kevin half mad with worry, raving about Crowley inside his head, Sam was almost sure Dean knew nothing about what had happened the night before. He wasn't sure what was worse, Dean not knowing what had happened, or him knowing and choosing to say nothing about it, letting Sam stew in his own juices. 

No, that was a lie. Sam knew what was worse. At least this way, Dean didn't know that his own baby brother had almost molested him, groping him, stroking against him, all without any kind of yes from Dean. And that that had almost made it better, let Sam believe for a few moments that they had the sort of lives where he could cup the man he loved against him in the night, stroke them together, all with the kind of implicit consent he'd presumed the night before. That was the better feeling. The other was... punishment worse than he though Dean capable of. 

***

When Ajay said that he could get them in, could get them to Hell, the only thing Sam felt was a sense of relief. His stomach had felt a bit like a wet rag ever since _that_ night, knotting up at the most inconvenient moments. It was like he was being pulled apart at the seams, yanked too hard in too many ways. 

Every time he caught a glimpse of Dean out of the corner of his eye, felt the brush of Dean's jacket as they stood too closer, caught a whiff of the gunpowder and oil smell that floated around his brother, his heart leapt. It was like that little moment had let loose so much more that had only been a whisper before. Now, it was a constant tug inside him, pulling him to Dean, begging him to touch, to own. But then he'd turn towards Dean the entire way, remember what he'd done.

It was too much and he needed to atone for it. He had to find a way to make up for the middle of the night, the darkness, the moments that he couldn't give away. 

Because he couldn't lie to himself any more. If he got the chance again, if he had that moment with Dean, it would happen again. It was too little comfort in the deepness of the night, but he needed it. And so he had to atone, to venture to the place that he knew, deep in his heart, he'd always belonged to. 

And when Ajay left him in Purgatory, smiled and said this was the way in, Sam knew he had done the right thing. Here was his redemption, the way to strip away the deed the whispers muttered about in the back of his mind, that perfect moment that was all the worse for its perfection.

***

And then Benny was there, and Sam couldn't help but feel that it had worked. He had been to Hell, felt its heat on his skin and the pounding on his soul. He had heard the screams inside his head, made the worse for the screams all around him. And now he had finally been given a sign. 

And yes it was a terrible sign, but perhaps it was the right one for this sort of thing. Dean had sent Benny to bring Sam out. Dean had _killed_ Benny to bring Sam out, and Sam knew he was a bit of the whispers inside Dean's soul as well. He'd always known he'd come first for Dean, known his brother would protect him no matter what. Yet this... well, it was different.

He finally knew for sure that Dean had chosen him, didn't just want to shuffle Sam away to some life with a girl and a dog. Because what would Dean do if Sam had that life? Go back to Benny, that was what. But Benny was here now, and Dean had to know that he probably wasn't coming back. 

So Sam finally had what he wanted, redemption and assurance.

But he knew it would happen again if he got the chance. And that there wouldn't be another chance to cleanse his soul this way. 

And he knew he didn't really care. The need was too much now. 

***

When they drove away from Maine, blinding stars in the sky gleaming like the aurora of Bobby's soul, Sam thought they would just keep driving, get back to Kevin as soon as possible. For all that Sam himself was feeling things fall apart in his mind, walls falling and letting things he couldn't even consider in, Kevin was in a far worse place. 

It was only when Dean began to slow near the first town outside the 100 mile wilderness, hand presed sharp against the seat behind Sam and face set, that he began to wonder. 

“Where we going?” Dean gave a bit of a grunt, pulling off the highway to a tiny motel, vacancy flashing in the office window. 

“Gotta crash. You need sleep, and I can't...” he paused for a second. “I just can't...” and this time he didn't finish the sentence. Instead, he stalked around to the trunk, grabbing both duffels and gesturing to Sam to stay put while he got them a room. 

The room, when Sam finally was allowed to trail after Dean, was small. There was some sort of hunting theme, plaid coverlet on the bed that took up most of the room. Snowshoes decorated one wall, a fake deer's head the other. Dean thumped the bags down and turned sharply to Sam. 

“You take first shower. Now.” And Sam couldn't really tell what was wrong. For a moment he wondered if now, now was the moment where Dean would bring up what had happened. Then he saw Dean's face. There was no anger there. Only the sort of desperation he'd only seen a few times on his brother's face, something deeper and darker than Dean ever showed. 

He took the shower. 

By the time he'd finished getting dressed afterward, toweling off his hair and wondering if Dean was finally right, that it was getting a bit long now, Dean had taken his own shower. For a moment, Sam considered commenting on it, wondering if Dean had even had a chance to wash his hair. Then he caught another glimpse of Dean's face and thought better of it. Now Dean had what, on another person, Sam would have called desperation written across his lips, his chin, the corners of his eyes. On Dean though, there was more, darkness and sadness waring with what was almost barely controlled panic. 

“Get in bed. You look wiped.” And Sam did, sliding under the covers on his side, wishing he could pull Dean to him. Yet that would be too much. He was so recently cleansed. How could he give that up, paint his sins against Dean again so soon. 

Dean, though, seemed to have other ideas. He slid into the bed on the other side, squirming immediately over to the center the staring at Sam. Sam started to slide over himself, a short motion he aborted as quickly as he could. It didn't mean anything that Dean was in the center. Perhaps his brother just didn't want to fall over, was worried about impaling himself on the antlers rising from the wall nearby. 

“Well, what are you waiting for? Get over here.” Sam had to restrain a sigh of relief. He knew, just knew, that Dean didn't need this as much as he did, didn't feel the wrenching tug inside his heart. But maybe, just maybe, Dean needed it a little too. 

He slid across the mattress till he was almost touching Dean, waiting for his brother to flip over so he could gather Dean tight into his arms, hang on tight against the world ending. Yet Dean only stared at him. Sam wondered for a moment then began to roll over. Maybe Dean wanted to hang on to him today, maybe things were different now that he had almost been... lost. '

“What are you doing?” Sam paused with a hand on the mattress between them, almost on his stomach. Dean's voice was still a little sharp, but with the beginnings of a fuzzy edge Sam remembered from deep in their childhoods. 

“I just thought...” But Sam didn't want to finish the sentence, didn't want to make it seem like he was asking for more than Dean seemed to want to give that day. 

“No.” And Dean was pushing him back onto his side, hand tight around Sam's shoulder. Then he was sliding into Sam, the hand on the shoulder running around to tangle in the shorter hair at the back of Sam's neck. Before Sam could even register what had happened, Dean was plastered to him, face buried against Sam's collar bone, one hand in his hair and the other pressed against Sam's chest. Sam felt his own arm sliding around Dean to pull his brother closer, to press into the base of Dean's spine just above the curve of Dean's ass. Before he could stop himself he was grabbing with his other hand at the arm Dean had fisted in Sam's shirt, clutching Dean's wrist tighter to him. 

Dean gave what might have been a bit of a moan as he snuffled closer into Sam. His mouth pressed a little at the base of Sam's neck and Sam felt himself biting back a moan in response. Dean pushed, forward even further, arm snaking up from Sam's chest to run around his neck, tangling with the other in Sam's hair. They were plastered together now, Dean pulling Sam's head to his and Sam pulling Dean against him in response. Dean tangled one leg between Sam's, head to foot warm against Sam. 

And it was a dream, a dream made real. There were no whispers now. There was only Dean, hot against him, sighing into Sam's neck, mouth a little wet.

Yet Sam wondered. When had dreams ever become real for him and not become nightmares? So he reached deep inside his stomach, pulling courage from somewhere he didn't even know it was hidden.

“Dean... what...” And that was all he could ask. Couldn't bring himself to finish the question in case Dean pulled away, in case that was the end of this dream.

“Shh... Sammy. I can't. Just can't loose you. Not there, not anywhere. Just... can't we have this?” Sam had never heard Dean sound so desperate, needy. And so, even with questions pushing harder at him than the whispers ever had, he didn't ask. He just bent his head a little lower and nuzzled into his brother's hair, breathing the smell of Dean deep inside himself, into the clean that had been scoured there in Hell. 

Because maybe, even if he had done something unthinkable, something that he could find the way into Hell because of, maybe things were still alright. Dean's mouth was warm against his neck, his brother mouthing lightly at him, not quite a kiss, Sam knew that. Just warm breaths, too close to the skin, close enough that Sam could pretend. 

And that was enough now.


End file.
